


Not My Finest Moment

by dungeoncruller



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Amnesia, Awkward Romance, Bromance, But not a songfic, Dragons, Dungeons & Dragons References, Elves, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Female Character of Color, I honestly forgot I could tag that, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, Loneliness, M/M, Making Friends, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Mistaken Identity, Modern Girl Falls into Skyrim, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Multi, Mystery, Orcs, Pansexual Character, Past Torture, Pizza, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Sarcasm, Sexism, Skyrim Main Quest, Slow Burn, Thalmor, Warnings May Change, bard class is best class, obscure canadian references, occasional songs, occassional satire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dungeoncruller/pseuds/dungeoncruller
Summary: Despite her scholarly achievements (HAH!), stunning good looks (pfft, whatever) and winning personality (of course, how original), Donna King finds herself unemployed, unmotivated and well on her way to spinsterhood. After a poorly spelled text from her ex-boyfriend sends her searching for a missing box of his junk, Donna finds herself disoriented and confused (moreso than usual anyways), lost in another world she didn't even know existed.-Donna could only watch, transfixed by the sight of multiple, very real arrows punching through Lokir’s body as if he were made of tissue paper. He fell in a tangled heap, sprawled across the dirt. It was a truly gruesome sight to behold, but it was the spreading pool of blood emerging from beneath his crumpled corpse that did her in.Donna fainted.Like every simpering, cliché heroine in every story ever when things finally take a turn for the worse, Donaldina Maria King fucking fainted.-A light(ish)-hearted look at the misadventures of a passive-aggressive Canadian girl trapped in another world where pointy ears are abundant and dragons are scary motherfuckers.





	1. In which there is polyester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the ~~dumpster fire~~ adventure!

**\- ACT I: PART I: UNBOUND -**

 

 _Why the hell did I agree to go to this stupid thing?_ Donna thought bitterly as she stared into the back of the head before her. The ornate updo was barely holding up, blonde strands slipping out of the twisted bun and sticking to the girl’s neck. Donna herself could relate, she was sweating up a storm in the overheated auditorium. Her own damp hair stuck to the back of her neck uncomfortably as she tried in vain to imagine that the fans whirling high above her head were actually having any sort of effect at all. She wished she hadn’t twisted up the program earlier, but her hands had acted on their own accord; she was a fidgeter by nature. _It would have made such a good fan too,_ she sighed. At least her neighbours had the good sense not to destroy theirs. Every now and then a stray gust of air blew her way and it felt like a little piece heaven in the hellish heat.

The ceremony was taking _forever._ To make matters even worse, her program was at the very end of the list. After four years of classes, midterms and procrastinating on thesis projects, it had finally culminated in this glorious moment; a moment Donna would happily give her left tit to see come to a swift end. Anything to get out of this suffocating room! Who the hell had decided to call the program ‘Visual Design for Interior Spaces’ anyways? It should have just been ‘Interior Design’, plain and simple! 

_Stupid hoighty-toighty nonsensical college bureaucrats…_

What a load of shit.

At least she had something relatively nice to look forward to after this aggressive testing of her antiperspirant finally concluded. Her parents had made the three hour trip with not one, but both sets of grandparents in tow. This was quite a feat, considering that they bitterly hated one another. The grandparents, that is. Although Donna still wasn’t sure what the current status of her parents’ marriage was these days. It felt like they’d been on the cusp of divorce ever since she was seven, and despite her absence from home the past few years, it didn’t sound like the situation was improving.

 _I hope they aren’t making things too awkward for Gabe._ As her thoughts drifted to her boyfriend, a goofy smile made its way across her face. _Poor guy isn’t the best with people on a good day, let alone when stuck dealing with my squabbling family._ Oh well, she’d make it up to him one way or another… If he’d even let her. Her smile faded into a frown. Most of the time he’d refuse to go out, and if she wanted to stay in, she knew that the only way he’d spend the evening with her was if they parked their butts in front of the television. While he played his video games. Virtually ignoring her.

This behaviour had really pissed her off after they’d moved in together. She couldn’t even wrap her head around the amount of time that man spent on his playbox or x-station or whatever the heck it was called! Donna had lost count of the amount of evenings she’d returned home from work or class, only to find him in the exact same spot she’d left him hours before; ass plastered to the couch and eyes glued to the screen, completely oblivious to the passage of time. Still, he had paid his half of the rent, footed the internet bill and kicked in for groceries, so that already put him leaps and bounds ahead of her last boyfriend. 

_Not by much though…_

At last, her section was finally ushered off to the side, down the aisle and around to the front of the auditorium. They were made to stand in an ordered line, a woman she vaguely recognized from the registrar’s office straightening robes and adjusting collars as they waited for their names to be called. The short walk had brought minor relief from the heat, but judging by the bright stage lights it was going to be woefully short-lived.

“Donaldina Maria King, High Honours,” the MC spoke into the microphone, adding a slight scottish brogue to her name and clearly thinking himself all the more clever for it. She heard a few snickers from her classmates, all of whom had known her as merely ‘Donna’ for the past four years, and none of whom had been aware until just then how awful and embarrassing her first name was. She felt her ears and cheeks heat up, face flushing even more than it had from the heat alone. 

 _Guess that’s my cue, hopefully I won’t fall on my ass._ She grimaced at the thought, silently praying to the powers that be that she’d manage to stay upright. It wasn’t unusual for her to trip or stumble, she had always been a bit of a clutz, lacking the willowy grace of her mother and older sister. She could trip over her own shadow, her father had often said while she was growing up. Right now she focused desperately on her feet, trying not to live up to the expectations of the childhood teasing.

Whether by divine intervention or sheer dumb luck, Donna managed to keep both of her feet firmly on the stage floor, itchy polyester robes swishing along as she went. There were a bunch of people insistent on shaking her hand and clapping her on the back, the vast majority of which she had never before seen in her life, but was assured were ‘very important to her receiving her scholarly success.’ Bullshit. _If anything, there should be some dude up here dressed as a can of Redbull, another as a box of Belmonts, and the CEO of the Tim Hortons coffee chain._ Now they had definitely been the ones responsible for her success, keeping her awake and functioning during those eight a.m. classes and overnight assignment benders.

She was pulled off to the side after exiting the stage, forced to take some pictures while holding a rolled up piece of printer paper tied with a golden ribbon, and then told she could order the pictures online as a business card was pressed into her sweaty palm by a man in a cheap suit with a fancy camera and a very unfortunate goatee. Once things were concluded backstage, Donna and her fellow classmates were marched through a dark hallway and back out to the auditorium. While they blinked owlishly at the sudden brightness, a smartly dressed usher herded them back around to their seats. There was much blundering about, and the distinctive sound of ripping fabric as the uncoordinated mob of graduates reseated themselves. There was yet another speaker standing centre stage, and by the looks of things they were in for another lengthy speech about their limitless potential or how important alumni donations were. The collective groan at this realization was quickly quashed by the usher with a hissed ‘Shh!’ and a rather nasty glare. Slumping into her seat, Donna scowled back and resumed staring a hole into the back of the blonde head before her.

_I can’t wait to get out of here. Gabe better be prepared, because I am dying for a reassuring hug right now. And some tylenol. Maybe a back rub. Definitely a smoke._

Even one of his shitty menthols.

Ugh.

 

* * *

 

“I take it Gabriel won’t be joining us, sweetheart?” Donna’s father eyed the shambling crowd behind her. It was like an endless sea of blue gowns, a swarming mass of sweaty college students and irritated family members, all stuffed into uncomfortable formal wear and forced to ignore the underlying stench of body odor. “Haven’t seen that boy since he came to Christmas.”

“Oh,” Donna’s dark brown eyes darted at her own small collection of people, wincing internally as she noticed the absence of a distinct boyfriend-shaped figure. “Well...uh...he came down...with...with something this morning! Stomach bug. Yup. Wouldn’t have been able to sit through the ceremony. You know how it is…” She mimed barfing excessively, much to the amusement of her father and disapproving glare of her mother. Despite how upset she was, Donna was trying desperately not to alert her family. Her unexpectedly (yet still somehow slightly expectedly) absent boyfriend, once again ditching her at an important event. Wherever that boy is, he had better have an excellent excuse as to why he’d decided to bail on her graduation. It made suffering through the stifling auditorium and lengthy speeches all the more unbearable to know that she had suffered alone. _That asshole._

“Ya sure we didna scare him off, lass?” Grandpa Doug ribbed, the insinuation making Donna’s mother narrow her eyes and sneer at the old man. Donna sent out a prayer to whomever might be listening that her mother keep her temper in check, at least until after dinner. Growing up, her father had always referred to her mother’s more passionate temperament as a result of her latina blood. Donna secretly thought that she just enjoyed being a bitch sometimes. Hell, sometimes Donna did, too.

“Nina please…” implored her father, trying and failing to take his wife’s hand.

“Glenn,” Nina said warningly as she drew back her hand. “What did I―”

“Well,” Donna interrupted cheerfully, attempting to smooth over what could easily become World War Four, World War Three having happened sometime after her seventeenth birthday. “I guess we’re all here then, no need to wait around!” Swinging an arm around either of her parents, she began steering them towards the exit. The height difference between the three of them created a comical sloping line across their shoulders. “I had to call three weeks in advance to get this reservation, you know! And if we don’t show up by five, they’re gonna give it away, so, ya know, let’s get this moose on the caboose and hit the spruce!”

They blazed a trail to the doors through the writhing mass of people in the foyer, followed closely by Grandpa Doug and a pair of tiny, tutting grandmothers. Abuelo Ramón brought up the rear, teetering dangerously along with his squeaky aluminum walker. As far as Donna was concerned, this day could not be over soon enough.

Dinner, as she has woefully anticipated, was a total clusterfuck.

“So when will dis Gabriel make an honest woman of my little _nieta?_ Hmm?”

 _“Abuela!_ You know he’s got another year of school left before...”

“Och mah wee bairn still livin’ in sin! Yer breakin’ yer granny’s heart ya are!”

“Mom please! You can’t keep...”

“Hush lad! Now Donaldina, listen ta yer granny...”

“Seriously Douglas? Moira? You think you can tell my daughter how to live her li―”

“Nina, calm down sweetheart―”

**“GLENN!”**

“Mah poor heart canna take it!”

“Grandma, it’s fine. I’m happ―”

“An’ just where is tha laddie now anyhoo? Skulkin’ round on ‘is...”

“She said he was sick dad. He’s home, rest―”

 _“Hija,_ would you stop...”

“Sorry for the wait folks, dinner’s here! Now who ordered the…”

Never in her life had Donna been happier to see a plate of liver and onions than in that moment. As the food was laid out, she finally caught her breath. Hopefully with their mouths full, the bickering would cease, if only for a little while. Soon she would be home, safe from her crazy family and comfortably snuggled up with Gabe on their ugly leather couch...

Or not.

“Tha’s no mah order, lassie!”

“Eesn’t dis supposed t’be cooked?”

“Nina, could you―”

**“GLENN!”**

**“WHAT?”**

“Mah wee Donaldina, pass yer grannie the…”

“Ees too salty! Like leecking a…”

“Moira me luv…”

“Dad, that’s not a salad, it’s the centrepiece...”

She could barely contain her abject misery. Why on earth had she thought this would be a good idea? Looking around the table, she tried her best to push back her increasing displeasure and keep a smile plastered on her face. She could already see the raised brows and mocking glances at their table from around the room. The waitress had made a tactical retreat, hopefully calling reinforcements but most likely hiding out in the kitchens until some other poor schmuck got stuck dealing with the unruly horde.

What the hell was Gabe playing at, leaving her to the wolves like this? They’d talked about this! He knew what they were like, how she’d need his support to get through this crazy day! Whatever his reason for blowing her off, it had better be good. Short of literally dying, there was little she could think of that would justify his absence in her time of need.

 

* * *

 

The apartment shared by one Donaldina King and her boyfriend Gabriel Becker wasn’t much, but it was home. The old hotel had been converted into apartments some time in the late 1970s, and it seemed that no further updating had been done ever since. In the winter chill, the radiator groaned and crackled. In the fall winds, the windows rattled dangerously in their frames. In the spring rains, the bathroom vent leaked. And in the summer heat, it was so unbelievably hot, it was borderline unbearable. This wasn’t even taking into account their rowdy neighbours and absentee landlord.

The faux wood paneling on the kitchen cupboards was slowly peeling off, the parquet flooring would catch and stick to your feet as you crossed the room, and every now and then a fuse would blow for no reason at all. Every weekend the walls vibrated from the deep bass music in the unit above, and Wednesday morning were reserved for screaming matches between mister down-the-hall and his five-year old terror. And don’t even get Donna started on that fucking dog next door, barking at all hours simply because someone had the audacity to use the garbage chute, walk past his door, or even sneeze too loudly.

But again, for all its faults and flaws, it was home. Over the past year, they had combined their collective mismatched furniture, dishes and decor, comfortably filling the small two bedroom unit. Occasionally they had thrown parties with their school friends, but for the most part things were kept calm; a safe, quiet haven for two college students to focus on their studies.

“Where the **HELL** were you!?” 

The front door slammed, causing a nearby picture frame to sway dangerously on its nail. This was followed by the sound of stomping feet, the _shht_ \- _shht_ of swishing fabric and the crash of something that sounded very similar to the aforementioned picture frame smashing into the tiled foyer floor. A shadow crossed the living room doorway, the light of the nearby television flashing across glass-covered eyes. A small, meaty fist smashed into the wall switch and Gabe’s eyes blinked uselessly at the sudden brightness. He could blearily make out what appeared to be the heaving figure of his rather red-faced girlfriend.

“Wha…?”

“I said,” she huffed. “Where. The Hell. Were. You?” 

She was visibly enraged and extremely upset. And Gabe couldn’t for the life of him quite figure out why… “Babe, what’s―”

“Don’t ‘Babe’ me! You promised me!” She was crying now, hot angry tears as she viciously kicked off her kitten-heeled shoes. “This was important! My parents were there. My grandparents for fuck’s sake! Do you know how many favours I had to call in to get _five_ seat tickets for this!?”

“How...how many fa―”

**“A-FUCKING-LOT GABRIEL. A LOT.”**

Eyes finally accustomed to the light, Gabe sat back on the beaten up-leather couch with a bewildered expression on his face. His controller lay in his lap, the game playing on idly in the background. He could now clearly see the agitated state his girlfriend was in.

At five foot nine and just over two hundred and fifty pounds, Donaldina Maria King was not a small woman by any stretch of the imagination. Her being clad in an ill-fitting garment of navy-blue polyester, (which, at this point, she was totally not going to get that deposit back for, that ripping noise earlier had apparently been her ass making a guest appearance) short, purple, wispy hair in disarray and tears streaking black lines down her ruddy cheeks, thick-rimmed glasses askew and fogging slightly from the sheer heat of her rage.

In short, she was a fucking hot mess.

“Donna, why are...” He rose to his feet, controller falling to the floor forgotten as he scrambled over the side of the couch, carelessly avoiding a half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal and a crumpled pile of empty soda cans. 

“Seriously Gabe!? First that stupid sandwich thing and now this?” She gestured wildly at the television. “You’re wasting your life playing that fucking game.”

“Hey, it’s not just a―”

“No Gabe, it’s not just ‘a’ whatever,” she glowered, reddened eyes shining darkly. “You’re not just wasting your life, you’re wasting MY life with that game.” 

They stared at each other, before Donna spoke once more, her eyes downcast and voice quieting with horrified realization.

“This is it. I’m done, we’re through.”

In the background, the screen faded to black, with bold white letters spelling out the words **GAME OVER**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I hope you won’t hold this against Donna, but she needed to get out of that relationship anyways. Sure, she didn’t want to be at the graduation ceremony, or deal with a slew of irritable family members, but it would have been much easier with her fella by her side, right?  
> Anyhow, on with the plot!
> 
> Apologies for my horrible Spanish, in the land of toques and moose, we are only taught English and French in school. Hooray for Google Translate!  
> Abuela = Grandmother  
> Nieta = Granddaughter  
> Hija = Daughter
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> I tried to flesh out some of the descriptions and dialogue, and clean up some rather embarrassing spelling and grammatical errors. Why is it so much easier to see all my mistakes when I reread it _after_ I post it? Ugh. So lame.


	2. In which there is shitty wifi.

It had been four months since The Break Up. That’s right, capital letters folks, it was that big a deal. It had been three months since Gabe had finally moved all of his stuff out of the apartment. And it had been exactly six days since she had last showered. Despite being the one to call it quits, Donna was a complete and utter wreck. She’d barely left the house in over a month and her days were filled with Netflix and sleeping, broken up intermittently with bouts of ugly crying, lukewarm instant coffee and the consumption of several entire sleeves of saltine crackers topped with margarine. Yum.

The living room was a disaster site akin to those found after tornadoes and great tropical storms. Dirty mugs and plates were stacked higher and deeper on top of the far end table, rendering the dusty lamp that shared the space useless, its cracked green shade barely peeking out from behind the piles. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the waning light of the setting sun, something Donna had previously loved about the south-facing apartment, but now it just served as a horrible reminder of how much time was passing her by each and every day. Leaning against a cheap IKEA television stand was a dusty, but clearly well-loved Fender guitar.

Dirty clothes, cracked DVD cases and the odd sex toy littered the floor. Next to the desiccated husk of what might have once been a snake plant, an overflowing ashtray perched precariously beside a soup pot that might have once held Kraft Dinner (that’s Kraft Mac and Cheese to you American heathens), with orange noodles crusted to the bottom . A partially eaten tin container of McCain Deep’n’Delicious chocolate cake sat next to a sad-looking cactus on the coffee table, draped with a worn-out grey bra that looked like one more wash could finally put it out of its misery.

In the midst of the chaos, nestled in a pile of every blanket and soft cushion she could find, sulked a dejected, rather depressed Donna. Her purple hair hung limply in a messy tangle around her head, strands catching on the multitude of silver hoops that covered ears. She was currently mowwing down on a hunk of mild cheddar, torn from the brick of cheese in her refrigerator under the guise of it being a ‘healthier’ alternative to the half-pint of Ben and Jerry’s still lurking in the back of her freezer. Cheese had protein in it, right? And calcium, therefore it is healthy. Yup, that’ll do for justification. 

Prying open her laptop, she quietly scrolled through Facebook, noting that two more of her former classmates had been hired on by some local design firms.  _ Great, now I’m even further behind. _ She crossed her brows before closing the tab with a bit more force than strictly necessary on her poor touchpad. Ending it with Gabe had thrown her through a loop, that was for sure. She hadn’t quite been expecting it, but...well…  _ Maybe one day I’ll get my head out of my ass and finally move on. _

Sighing heavily, she opened Netflix and threw on the first series that popped up. As she nestled further into the couch, the cheap futon springs made a series of dull ‘clungkh’ sounds and began digging into her hip. God how she missed the battered old leather sofa Gabe had taken with him. She should have just paid him for the damn thing instead of staunchly refusing every piece of furniture he offered to sell her. On principle of course! Why would she need anything from him?

From within her cocoon of blankets, she heard the tell-tale ‘ping’ of her phone go off, indicating a new text. Donna flopped to side, fingers blindly groping for the stray phone. Dragging it out from underneath the labyrinth of afghans and quilts, she paused her show and looked down at the screen.

> _ Hey its Gabe just wantd  _ _   
>  _ _ 2 now if u hav 1 of my  _ _   
>  _ _ boxes Im missing sum  _ _   
>  _ __ games

Scowling, she quickly punched in:

> _ I’ll take a look when I can _ _   
>  _ _ pretty busy tho. _

Moments later, her phone dinged again.

> _ Thanx _

_ I hope he lost his stupid x-station or whatever it’s called, _ she thought bitterly.  _ Maybe it’ll do him some good to spend time in the real world. _ Tossing her phone back into the abyss of blankets, she dove back over to her laptop once more, intent on catching up on the latest ‘Recommended For You’.

Or at least she would have, if the internet hadn’t chosen that exact moment to blip out. 

Well tits.

 

* * *

 

Resigning herself to a few hours of boredom until it booted back up, Donna half-dragged, half-crawled her way to the bathroom, deciding it was finally time to take a much needed shower. It could be a few minutes or a few hours until the wifi was up again, an unfortunate side-effect of choosing the cheapest internet provider available. The fees were more in-line with her currently unemployed status and ever-dwindling savings. Yet another unfortunate result of dumping Gabe, who had paid for a premium connection due to his obsessive online gaming.

One unnecessarily long, hot shower later saw Donna dressed herself in her cleanest underpants and an old t-shirt. After descending down the hall with several undignified hops as she pulled on some thick, fluffy socks, she climbed back to the couch with all the vigor a clinically depressed shut-in could muster. A quick check on her phone told her the internet was still out of service, and she flumped back into the pile of cushions. Somewhere to her left, an empty mug clattered onto the floor. 

Gabe’s message was still on the screen and she glared at it sourly. Shutting the screen off, she dragged herself to her feet again.  _ Might as well do something productive while I’m waiting around. _ She stepped up to the nearest closet and opened it, dodging a few wayward Christmas decorations as she rummaging about for the misplaced box.

It took less than an hour to find it. Somehow, it had gotten pushed into the back of her bedroom closet under a box of old Cosmopolitan magazines that she was keeping for, well,  _ something. _ Opening it, she found a black rectangular box, a couple game cases, controllers and a veritable rats nest of tangled wires. Loosely refolding the flaps, she lifted the box and brought it out to the living room, where she dumped it next to the couch as she flopped back down. She turned her phone once more and began a brief message to Gabe.

> _ I found it... _

She paused, thumb hovering over the send button. No, she’d told him she was busy. Smirking, she deleted the three words and shut off her phone, before reopening it again and checking the time. Eight forty-three. She had successfully wasted yet another day, impatiently waiting to hear back from several job interviews. Donna knew she shouldn’t have quit her part-time gig at the coffee shop, but she’d been so sure that she had that last one in the bag.  _ Idiot. _ Counting her chickens before she put them in a basket or whatever nonsense her dad used to say. 

And the wifi was still out. 

Terrific. 

Truly, it was a goddamn miracle that anything managed to get done in this modern travesty of a world. Wifi was a basic human right dammit! She glanced idly at the box by her socked feet, wriggling her toes thoughtfully.  The flaps had partially opened, the tape no longer sticking properly to the cardboard. 

_ Hmm _ …

It took her twenty-seven minutes to set up the bloody thing, using the trial-by-error method and eventually a quick google search via her phone data, to plug in the wires correctly into the back of her second-hand flatscreen TV. She must have seen Gabe do this hundreds of times, why the hell hadn’t she bothered to pay attention? Then again, why the hell would she have even bothered? She hated it when he played his stupid games. In fact, most of the time when he’d had to plug it back in, it had been because she’d unplugged it herself. Bah. Fuck the whole thing.

_ Hrmph _ .

There were only two games in the box, something called Oblivion, and a cracked green case with the word ‘skyrim’ scrawled hastily on it in sharpie. Vaguely she recalled stepping on the case. It had been early on in their relationship, before Gabe had learned not to keep his things within stomping distance of his clumsy girlfriend’s feet. She disregarded the broken case in favour of Oblivion, the cover reminding her of a storybook she’d had as a kid. Donna was severely disappointed to find the disk for Skyrim inside. She cracked open the broken case optimistically, only to find it empty. ‘ _ Well that settles that then.’ _ She turned on the console and pushed the disk in the slot before sitting back on her heels, controller in hand.

After some trial and error, she managed to get the system set up and track down some AA batteries for the controller (RIP her beloved vibrator), only to click on the game’s icon and have it spit out some garbage about needing to download an update.

_ Well fine, if that’s how it is Universe, I’ll play along. But first, I’m thinking pizza is in order… _

 

* * *

 

With a swipe of her thumb, Donna turned on her phone’s data and brought up her favourite pizza place’s website. After punching in her order, she bumped up the quantity by one and hit ‘confirm’. Sure, she didn’t  _ need  _ to order two pizzas, but if the state of her fridge was any indication, she was in dire need of groceries and had little to no desire to brave the outside world any time soon. After accidentally opening the calculator app three times, Donna successfully managed to set an alarm on her phone (thirty minutes or its free folks!) and stared desperately around the living room looking for something,  _ anything  _ to occupy herself with.

The television screen was still showing the stupid loading bar for the update, which was moving along with a speed that would make snails weep for all its slowness. Her eyes landed on her guitar, still sitting in the exact same place it had been left three months prior when she, out of sadness and unconscionable desperation, had left it...after leaving a rather embarrassing please-take-me-back love song on Gabe’s voicemail. 

Okay, so maybe it was more like three voicemails… 

Fine, sixteen! But she had been drinking and it had seemed like a good idea at the time! Feeling betrayed, she narrowed her eyes at the guitar as if it had somehow been the one responsible, and instead picked up the cracked game case. Maybe it had a manual or something she could read to pass the time?

Upon finding no manual―or any other type of reading material for that matter―within the case, Donna checked the status of the wifi once more.  _ Nope, still nothing. Balls. _ Begrudgingly, she scrambled around the room until she found her pack of cigarettes (found between two slightly sticky plates that once held eggo waffles and syrup) and spent the proceeding twenty seven and a half minutes chain smoking while painting her toenails a rather alarming shade of neon green polish. She accidentally stepped on the small bottle while returning to her couch-turned-blanket fortress, nearly rolling her ankle in the process, and decided her feet had suffered for her depression long enough.

The series of rapid knocks at her door startled Donna, nearly causing her to drop her cigarette butt in her lap. Reaching over to stamp it out in the already overflowing ashtray, she accidentally spilled the still open bottle of nail polish.  _ For fuck’s sake! _ she thought, before righting the bottle and pulling herself up from the couch. She’d deal with the mess later...maybe never. 

Whatever. 

As she made for the door, trying to pocket her phone and keep her wet toenails from touching each other, it became rather apparent that she had forgotten to put on pants. Well, in all actuality she hadn’t  _ forgotten  _ to put on pants, rather she had actively chosen not to after her shower. Throwing her hands up in the air and grumbling miserably to herself, she quickly scanned the room before snatching her housecoat off the floor. It was in a crumpled ball by the window and slightly sticky with what might have been spilt Dr. Pepper from two weeks ago, but it would have to do. Pulling the fluffy purple robe on over her shoulders, she fumbled a half-assed knot with the tie as she made for the front door.

“Just a minute!” she shouted at the door before tripping over the mess of shoes and bags that littered the front hall. “Buggering hell!” she groaned as she accidentally punted a boot into the wall, smearing green polish as she went. Despite living alone, Donna could have easily outfitted at least three other people twice over with the amount of footwear at her disposal. Rechecking that she wasn’t going to accidentally flash the delivery person, Donna straightened her bathrobe and opened the door.

 

* * *

 

Timothy Hale was  _ pissed. _ He’d worked delivery the past three nights after a full day at the auto shop, and after the rather spectacular manner in which his coworker (now ex-coworker) had cursed out the manager before flipping his way off out the door, it was looking like he’d be doing the delivery shift every night for the foreseeable future. Truly he was living the spoiled Millennial dream; full time college courses with two jobs and barely able to make rent on his three bedroom apartment that he split five ways with his roommates. To make matters even worse, the elevator had been out of service, so he'd had to haul ass up three flights of stairs just to make his current delivery. Nothing short of a ten dollar tip was going to make this injustice even remotely acceptable, and judging by the pitiful order size, it was extremely unlikely he’d make more than a toonie.

Switching the pizza bag to one hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door with the other. After a few moments, there was a muffled sound of movement behind the door, followed by a feminine holler of “just a minute!” and the sound of something banging before he heard a resounding “buggering hell!”  _ At least I’m not the only one having a shit day. _ The door swung open, revealing a rather rumpled looking, overweight woman in a ridiculous purple housecoat, emblazoned with yellow stars. Short, slightly damp, violet hair stuck out in disorganized tufts on her head, adding to her overall state of dishevelment. Thick, black-framed eyeglasses sat perched on the end of her nose, a pair of dark brown eyes peering at him over the rims.

“Umm…” he blinked.

“Yes?”

“You ordered a pizza for delivery?”

“Yes? Oh! Hold on,” she turned her head, giving him a closer look at the numerous silver hoops strung through her ears. The woman shouted into the apartment, “Hey guys! Pizza’s here!” 

There was no discernible response.

Timothy pulled out the slightly crumpled receipt from the bag’s top pouch, attempting to smooth it against his denim-clad thigh before reading off the total.

“So that’ll be $22.29, cash or credit?”

“Uh, credit? Hold on a sec…” 

She began fumbling in the pockets of her robe, the movement caught his eye as a sliver of her inner thigh was briefly exposed. He saw the briefest flash of a tattoo and bright pink panties, feeling his face flush as he immediately averted his eyes.

“Well shit, I must have left it on the couch, hold on there, bud.” 

As she turned and left him standing in the doorway, Timothy noticed a rather large, dark stain on the bottom left side of her robe.  _ Lovely. _ Sighing and switching the pizza bag to his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. After what seemed like an inordinately long time for someone to just grab their wallet, he nervously knocked on the door frame.

“Uh, miss? Hello?”

There was no reply.

“Hey, um…are you okay? Hello?”

Silence.

“Miss?” He hemmed and hawed, finally relenting. “I’m coming in! Miss? Hello?”

Picking his way carefully through the messy hallway, Timothy poked his head into the first room he came across, and was immediately disgusted by the contents. The lingering smell cigarettes made him wrinkle his nose, as did the stacks of dirty dishes and snotty tissues littered across the floor. There was a distinct undertone of what could only be nail polish, a smell he instantly recognized from years of living with younger sisters.  _ Yuck. _ Across the room there was a television lying face-down on the floor, wires pulling across the top of the table it had apparently sat upon. There was a soft humming noise coming from somewhere, but not a living soul was to be found.

Timothy Hale was  _ so  _ not paid enough to deal with this shit. 

After briefly checking over the rest of the apartment  _ (so unbelievable gross, when did the woman last clean this trash heap?) _ it became clear to the unfortunate pizza delivery man that there was absolutely nobody there to pay for the pizzas. Re-zipping the delivery bag with a frown, he turned back the way he came and left the apartment. If he slammed the door a little too harshly to be considered anywhere near polite, there was no one to witness it. Stomping down three flights on concrete steps, his seethed, frustrated with how absolutely shitty his life was. Timothy seriously hoped that once he finished his shift, his roommates had saved him a few beers. After a day like today, he fucking needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: What was her pizza choice? I was torn between a Canadian (pepperoni, mushrooms and bacon) or a Hawaiian (pineapple and ham. yum). I figured I’d leave it open-ended, makes Donna a bit more relatable if you want to pretend she ordered your favourite. Of course, I could have done the obligatory “extra sausage” bit, but let’s keep away from that explicit rating for now…
> 
> Also, who else pretends not be home alone when they order pizza by themselves? I always feel too self-conscience not to when I order for just myself (and extra for later because fuck buying groceries am I right?)
> 
> I don’t know if McCain’s Deep’n’Delicious cakes are a Canadian thing, but damn! So good. We used to get them as a treat every once and a while for dessert when I was growing up. Also, saltine crackers with margarine is pretty tasty, but obviously not the healthiest thing for you.
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.  
> For you heathens out there, a ‘toonie’ is what we Canadians call a two dollar coin. Accordingly, a one dollar coin is called a ‘loonie’, referring to the image of a loon on one side. Aren’t we just so clever?


	3. In which a desperate idiot tries to read a map.

It was quickly becoming apparent that somewhere along the way, Lokir had made a wrong turn. He had been diligently consulting his map, a rather tattered-looking affair he’d snatched off a travelling merchant on the outskirts of Riften, but such things were often found to be much more useful if one actually knew how to read. By his best reckoning, it had been a little over a week since he’d been chased out of the city, guards hot on his heels and shouting all kinds of rude things that alluded to him being of a less than savory character. It wasn’t his fault! He’d always been of the belief that it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and it was far less of a burden on his coin purse if he simply borrowed things instead of  _ paying  _ for them. 

Judging by the lush aspen forest he was still wandering through, Lokir had barely made it out of the Rift, much less to his goal of the Hammerfell border, located on the other side of the Reach. And the province. At least the weather had been good, despite the heat of the Last Seed sun, there had been a pleasant breeze present throughout the course of his journey. It had only rained on Morndas, and let’s be real, had there ever such a thing as a  _ good  _ Morndas?

As such, it should have come as no surprise that, with Morndas once again rearing its ugly head, things for Lokir took a turn for the worse.

And like many not good things, it came suddenly, unsolicited, with a rather unsettling BANG.

Well...more of a WHOOSH really.

Arguably a WHUMP.

Irregardless, it was Morndas once again and Lokir, the poor, scraggly wretch of a man, found himself completely flattened by the abrupt drop of something heavy onto his person. More accurately, it would later be revealed, it was not something, but  _ someone. _

 

* * *

 

There were three very important things that Donna rather quickly became aware of.

One, she had misplaced her glasses.

Two, she was face-down in the dirt.

And three, she was almost completely certain that she was absolutely, definitely no longer in her apartment.

Feeling like she had been hit by a truck, (or at least slightly run into by a Honda Civic) she drew herself up to her knees, only to find that she was not alone. She was, in fact, practically sitting on top of a rather smelly, possibly dead  _ (oh Dios, please don’t be dead!) _ man who was rather inelegantly sprawled out beneath her. Donna fell back hard, landing on her butt with a THUMP before scuttling backwards and away from the potentially  _ dead body. _ Her heart was racing, at a speed she had previously thought only achievable by frightened rodents and students presented with a pop quiz on ‘the reading homework from last week.’

WHAT. 

THE. 

FUCK.

She almost wept with relief at the sound of a masculine groan.  _ Not dead then, thank god. _ She took several deep, calming breaths before crawling towards the prone man.  _ I hope he doesn’t need First Aid, my certification is way out of date. _ While she struggled to remember the first basic steps of her Red Cross training,  _ (Call, Check, Care? Care, Check, Call?) _ the injured stranger pulled himself up into a sitting position and eyed her warily.

He was dressed in shabby clothes that had seen far, far better days, and seemed to possess a very obvious disregard for personal hygiene. His hair hung limply around his face in greasy strands, presumably dark brown in colour, but it was hard to tell if that was his natural colouring or simply accumulated filth. He had a rather weaselly-looking face and dark eyes that flashed nervously. His shoes were mismatched leather boots, not quite similar enough to be called a pair, with a large hole in the left one’s toe.

“He-hello?” The man asked, his voice had a rather nasal quality to it and a vaguely European accent that Donna couldn’t quite place.

“Hi?” answered Donna uncertainly. “Ar-are you alright dude?”

“No, this can't be happening.”

“You okay there bud?”

“This isn't happening!” The man was now trying desperately to put as much distance between himself and Donna as possible, shuffling backwards on his hands and feet. “Don’t kill me, please!”

After checking over her shoulder to confirm that this man was indeed of the belief that  _ she  _ was the apparent danger, and not some horrible monstrosity lurking behind her, Donna turned back to the man. Holding up her palms in what she hoped was a universally recognized show of ‘I’m no threat, please chill to fuck out’ she responded, “Oooookay…I’m just gonna...sit here...and  _ not  _ kill you?”

The scraggly man let out a terrified whimper.

 

* * *

 

After much coaxing and reassurance, Donna had somehow managed to pacify her human landing-pad. It had taken several long moments of waiting out his frightened murmurings, but for now he seemed comforted by her lack of threatening behaviour, regardless of how very strange he seemed to find her. He had even told her name, Lokir of Rorikstead, wherever the hell that was.  _ (Manitoba, maybe?) _ Satisfied that she wasn’t some sort of demonic hellbeast, he had offered her a spot by his fire. Her older brothers’ would have argued that particular assessment as patently false, but that was neither here nor there.

“So what are you supposed to be, some sort of Daedric priestess or something?” 

Donna squinted hard at the man across the fire as he made a gesture. Without her glasses, the world had taken upon itself a hazy, impressionistic quality. It seemed to be close to dusk, judging by the dying sunlight. All around her were what she imagined to be lush trees (tall green blurs), dense foliage (shorter green blurs) and dirt (brown blur―you get the idea). She could barely make out Lokir’s face, his eyes glinting in the firelight as he eyed her curiously.

“Something like that,” she muttered, unsure of how to respond to such an odd question.

“Never seen a get up like yours, but I guess I’ve never met a real priestess ’fore neither.” The man poked at the fire with a long stick, disturbing the ashes. “Though I did once meet someone keen on getting into the temple o’Dibella once…”

“Right...that’s me, eh? A  _ daydrit _ priestess. Yessiree” Donna tried to placate the obviously disturbed man. “Just traveling around, spreading the good word of  _ daydras _ and all.” She gave him what she hoped was a convincing smile.  _ This is some crazy-ass X-Files shit right here. The fuck is a daydra anyhow? _

After a few more questions confirmed to Donna that the likelihood of Lokir being a few crayons short the whole chandelier was indeed more than a probability, a not-quite-companionable silence settled between them. He had offered her a chunk of what might have been bread (“no thanks, I’ve already eaten,” she’d lied) and had curled himself up next to the fire on a threadbare bit of cloth, trying to keep an inconspicuous eye on her while feigning sleep. Adjusting her bathrobe as best she could, Donna pulled up her fluffy hood, dragged herself closer to the warmth of the fire and prayed for someone to happen along and save her from this strange, smelly whackjob.

 

* * *

 

It was greed, not necessity (although he would fervently deny it) that drove Lokir to his actions. After the bizarre-looking priestess finally fell asleep, he had crept up from his meager bed and crawled as silently as he could around the clearing to get a closer look at the unusual jewelry she wore. Unnaturally-hued hair and those odd, purple-starred robes aside, she did seem to fit the bill of his usual mark. She possessed the plumpness attributed to a lifetime of privilege and good eating, the abundance of silver adorning her ears and face only adding to this impression. 

Her manner of speaking was very peculiar, drawing out words like ‘about’ to something more akin to ‘aboot’. How she kept referring to him as ‘bud’ and ending sentences with the occasional ‘eh?’ was also very perplexing. Maybe she was from High Rock? She didn’t look like any Breton he’d ever seen... Anyways, he was just about to attempt to pry off one of the priestess’ silver ear hoops when he was abruptly shrieked at, struck with a pair of flailing arms and shoved backwards into the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Oh Donna, whatever shall we do with you, you useless girl? As for dear Lokir, I did pilfer a bit of the opening paragraph from another piece I wrote about him...is it considered plagiarism if it’s your own work? Probably *sigh* (;-__-)
> 
> For the record, the three basic emergency action steps are Check, Call, Care. Check the scene and the victim. Call the local emergency number. Provide care (if able) until emergency services arrive.
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.  
> 


	4. In which an orc meets some elves.

Once upon a time, in the fourth era, there lived a lonely orc on a mountain. Okay, so he wasn’t really lonely per say, there was that pair of elves who occasionally invaded his hut whenever they happened to be in the area. It would be far simpler, in fact, to say that he was just ‘an orc’, not ‘a lonely orc’, although calling him lonely did allude to more of a mysterious, potentially romantic existence. Like perhaps he  _ chose  _ to be alone for some greater purpose, waiting for the beginning of some epic adventure...if one was swayed by such flights of fancy. Which he was not, absolutely not, thank you very much. Rozak Mog, for all that he couldn’t remember anything about his life prior to the day he awoke lying at the bottom of a ravine, was absolutely certain that he was as serious and no-nonsense as they come.

Over the course of what might have been a few months or possibly even years, for Rozak Mog had very little interest in tracking the passage of time, he had constructed himself a rather well-appointed, if slightly lopsided shack. Hidden amongst the dense foliage of what his bosmeri visitors would eventually inform him was the Jerall Mountains, he maintained a quiet, peaceful existence. He hunted when he need meat, foraged when he was tired of eating meat, and spent his days occupying his hands with the making of things. Through trial and error, he had taught (re-taught?) himself how to cure the pelts of his kills, and make supple leathers and furs through slightly embarrassing methods that his bosmer pals swore was “not gross, it’s just how you do it.” He kept himself warm with simple clothing made from pelts and hides, and created rudimentary weapons from bone, wood and stone. His basket-weaving in particular, he thought, was pretty exceptional, although he had no comparison to be sure. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting life, but it was his, and he didn’t know what else to do but live it.

It wasn’t until one fateful day (and isn’t _always_ a fateful day when such things occur?), that Mog found himself being dragged what felt like halfway across the mountains by the mischievous pair of bosmer (who had introduced themselves only as Latta and Lor before helping themselves to his venison stew one blustery winter evening), in search of what they had assured him would be the absolute best bush of snowberries he would ever taste. Little did he know that what awaited him at their brief journey’s end would be slightly more life-changing than a simply _orgasmic_ (Lor’s words, not his) snowberry experience.

Rozak Mog was an orc. An orsimer. He knew this as much as he knew his own name, and it had only been confirmed upon seeing his reflection once, in a rather still pond mere days after he first found himself awake and aware in the ravine. He knew his skin was green, freckled in places on his arms (and a smattering across his nose as Lor had told him), with jutting tusks that poked out from behind his lips, matched by a pair sharp incisors that put either bosmers’ to shame. His eyes were dark, as was his long, black hair, and he knew himself to be rather tall. At least, he stood nearly twice the height of Latta and Lor, and they were his only source for comparison. Keeping this in mind, he was completely taken aback by the shout of “Hey orc!” across the clearing from him. Turning to see just who or what had been hollering at him, his grey eyes widened in surprise to see a man―a  _ human  _ man―striding across the shin-deep snow towards him.

It was then that Mog became acutely aware that neither Latta nor Lor was anywhere to be found. Bringing he hand up to his chest, he pointed to himself, “Who, me?”

The human was now before him, smiling widely. “Yes you! Who else?” The man quickly glanced around the edges of the treeline before continuing. “Thank Talos! Am I glad to see you!”

Rozak Mog was completely dumbstruck.

Did he just say  _ Talos? _

_ What in Malacath’s name is a Talos? _

“You are the courier, right?” The man asked, a flash of doubt crossing his face, hand slowly drawing closer to a rather nasty-looking axe at his side.

Mog drew back, completely taking in the human before him. Brown hair peeked out messily from under an ill-fitting helmet  _ (iron, maybe steel?), _ his face was mostly beardless, betraying how young the man actually ways, with short, scraggly hairs along his jaw. He had a pair of the nicest looking axes Mog could ever remember seeing strapped to either side of his belt, a set of leather and mail armor he could only dream of replicating with his pitiful setup back at the shack, topped with a slightly faded, deep blue mantle wrapped about his shoulders that had certainly seen some better days. Strapped to the man’s back was a rather plain looking bow and a quiver  _ (wait, what the hell is a quiver?) _ full of iron-tipped arrows.

_ How do I know these things? Did I know this man? Does he know me? _

“Well,” Mog began, unsure exactly what a courier was, let alone why or how he would be one. “You see―”

“HALT! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!”

There was no warning before the shout that echoed across the clearing, of which was rapidly filling with a large grouping of soldiers  _ (what were soldiers!?) _ swathed in red cloth and thick leather armor, polished steel weapons drawn and all pointed towards Mog and his blue-clad companion. Said companion clearly was not one for instruction, as the moment the voice demanded that they “DROP YOUR WEAPONS REBEL SCUM!” he immediately draw his axes and threw himself full-tilt at the closest cluster of soldiers.

Death was something that the orc had previously thought himself familiar with. He regularly killed animals for food, and watched those he did not hunt for prey of their own, but seeing the young man cut down before him sent an unexpected wave of grief through the very fabric of his being. Mog could only watch with horror as a sword tore through the man’s chest, another slicing his head cleanly from his shoulders. The head flew through the air and landed near Mog’s feet, a pair of sightless eyes a mirror to the blue skies above.

“ON YOUR KNEES ORC!”

Before they even finished speaking, Mog felt his legs give out as he crashed into the frozen ground below, hands shaking as he instinctively raised them over his head, gazing up at the surrounding soldiers.  _ Killers. _ They rose before him like a sea of red, and came crashing down, pulling him under. Pain exploded behind his eyes as the pommel of a heavy steel sword bashed into his skull.

 

* * *

 

Nausea was the first thing that welcomed the orc to consciousness, followed swiftly by a dull, throbbing pain towards the back of his head. It was an all too familiar sensation, and he half expected to find himself back in the ravine once more, lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of an icy cliff. The reality of his situation was hardly better (in his opinion), when he became aware of it, shackled as he was to a wall with irons digging tightly into his wrists. On preliminary inspection, the room he found himself in held little else, other than a door of thick iron bars and a rather inconspicuous wooden table with matching chair. The stonework of the floor caused both to sit rather unevenly, although someone had valiantly attempted to shim the chair with a folded bit of parchment under the wobbliest leg. Groaning loudly, which only served to amplify the pain in his head, Rozak Mog attempted to take a closer look at his surroundings.

Just as he was about to turn his head to examine things further, the door screeched open and two figures entered the room. Any hope that either of these individuals were Latta or Lor was sufficiently dashed as he took in their features. One was tall, possibly as tall as himself, with a haughty expression and skin that reminded him of the golden flowers Lor would braid into his hair. _Altmer_ his battered brain supplied, _and a Breton… no?_ it continued as he saw the other, much shorter person at their side. Although Mog would be hard-pressed to tell anyone at that moment exactly what an Altmer or a Breton was, other than a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that told him it had something to do with himself being an orsimer, and Latta and Lor being bosmer.

“And so the beast wakes.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I guess it’s time to get to work then?”

“Quite my dear, quite.”

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, in the fourth era, there lived a lonely orc in a dungeon. Okay, so he wasn’t really lonely persay, there was that pair of elves who occasionally invaded his cell asking him endless questions with sessions of relentless poking and prying that only ended when he had deafened himself with his own screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I actual feel like a complete monster for doing this to Mog, but hey, Skyrim isn’t always sweetrolls and mountain flowers. Still, my poor baby (╥_╥)
> 
> Also, RIP random Stormcloak dude. You will be missed and promptly forgotten, but your legacy of minor character death shall live on forever in the tags.
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	5. In which a tentative alliance is formed.

Donna had zero intention of letting her guard down, even as she reluctantly accepted the bedraggled man’s offer of sharing his campfire. This man, Lokir, was clearly disturbed and most likely dangerous. She had seen the knife he carried on his belt (if a length of rope could constitute a belt), and it was at least three times the size of the utility blade she usually carried in her purse. And so, she lay on the cold ground, waiting for her host to nod off so she could make a hasty exit. Maybe she could even figure out what exactly had happened to her and why she was now out in the woods, in the middle of the night, instead of at home playing a video game and snarfing down a pizza with extra cheese.

One moment, she had been staring intently at the burning logs as they crackled merrily, and the next she was all too aware of someone being entirely too close to her person, touching her ears, of all things! Like any sensible millennial woman with an ounce of self-preservation, Donna let out a startled yelp and struck out at the offending party with as much force as she could muster from her prone position. It was only after the person gave a shriek of their own as they scrambled out of the fire that she recognized them.

“Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ! What the HELL is your problem Lokir!?”

Like a scalded cat, Lokir had bolted it to the far side of the clearing, aggressively patting out the flames on the seat of his trousers. Realizing he had been caught, he quickly attempted to cover his less than noble actions with a bold-ass lie.

“There was a...a...a spider! Ya!”

Donna stared at him (or at least in what she hoped was his general direction), clearly not buying his bullshit.

“A big one! Yup! Nasty, furry black thing! Crawling right into your ear, it was!”

Donna instinctively tugged at her ear, chasing the phantom sensation of skittering legs and giving shudder. 

_ So fucking gross. Yucko. _

“All right there bud, let’s set some ground rules. You stay on your side of the fire,” she gestured to the side opposite her own. “And I’ll stay on mine. Sun comes up, we go our separate ways. ‘Til then, keep your fucking filthy hands to yourself, eh? I can and will kick your ass next time you feel like gettin’ friendly.”

Still tenderly holding his scorched rump, Lokir nodded. At least she hoped he did, she still couldn’t see for shit without her glasses, and the poor lighting was not helping the situation.

“Great. Glad we understand each other. Sorry ‘bout your butt. Night.”

She did not dare close her eyes after that.

 

* * *

 

By morning, Donna was tired. No wait, not tired,  _ exhausted. _ She hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since her second year of college, and that had only been achieved through copious amounts of coffee and the frantic necessity born of excessive procrastination. She was also very concerned about what surely couldn’t have been the blurry glow of TWO MOONS in the sky mere hours before, because that was impossible, right? At least the dawn of the new day had provided some new insight to her situation. To be more specific, it had provided  _ sight. _ A desperate waddle to the bush for a quick morning pee had resulted in more than just bladder relief, accidentally finding her glasses via the bottom of her stumbling foot. They now sat slightly off-kilter on the end of her nose, but at least now she could see.

Lokir was even more unfortunate looking in Hi-Def, although he was significantly nicer to her than he had been before the ear-groping incident. She even accepted his peace-offering of half a stale loaf of bread, most of which she ended up chucking into the closest shrub as soon as she saw the weevils crawling through it. At least that first bite had some bonus protein in it?  

After they had more or less broke their fast, Lokir stomped out the coals and rather brazenly whipped out his dick to piss on the fading embers. Donna had never spun around so fast.  _ Just...wow. What a guy, that Lokir. _ After tucking himself back into his ragged trousers, he walked up to Donna, leaving several feet between them just in case she sought a repeat of last night’s violent shoving.

“Where are you heading, priestess?”

“Uh...the nearest bus stop?”

“Busstop?”

“Train station?”

Lokir looked blankly at her.

“Timmies?”

Blink, blink, went Lokir.

“Hell, I’d settle for a McD’s in a pinch. Sure their coffee’s shit, but―”

“Cawfee?”

A chill was beginning to creep up Donna’s spine, the prickling sensation of impending panic in the back of her mind.  _ What sort of self-respecting Canadian didn’t know what a Timmies was? Let alone coffee! Was he some sort of tourist? A backpacker maybe? _ Donna wondered. It would explain the accent, that was for sure. Not too mention his lack of basic hygiene, if he had been travelling in the backcountry.

“Well then, where are  _ you  _ heading Lokir?”

The filthy man gave her a hard look, before relenting, “Hammerfell.”

“You mean Hamilton? Hammertown? The Hammer?”

The two humans spent the next few minutes just staring awkwardly at each other.

“Maybe...maybe you should come with me priestess?”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t get much more lost than I already am, and you certainly won’t be getting anywhere without protection.” He gestured to all of her, as if to prove his point.

She raised a single thin, brown brow at the implication.

“Wait,” Lokir fixed an accusatory eye at her. “You’re not a mage, are you?”

Unsure of how else to respond, Donna simply replied, “No?”

This seemed to have been the answer he was looking for, because tension immediately left Lokir’s shoulders. He took a few steps closer to Donna, pulled out a ratty bit of paper and waved it under her nose. “Well then priestess, can you read a map?”

Upon examination of the faded, dogeared piece of parchment, Donna felt her stomach drop nervously somewhere around her kneecaps.

Donna was almost completely certain that Lokir was absolutely, definitely insane.

 

* * *

 

They had been walking all day. 

All. 

Fucking. 

Day. 

She could have sworn they’d passed that particular stump no less than twelve times, and it looked like they were about to make it a baker’s dozen. When Lokir had asked her if she could read a map, she didn’t realize the implication; he was woefully inept, directionally challenged and very likely, completely illiterate. As it was, even she couldn’t make out what the words said, although that probably had something to do with the strange, runic letters that spelt them.

_ It looks more like a prop from a Lord of the Rings movie than anything else. _

By the time the sun began to set, Donna was more tired, sore and hungry than she had ever been in her entire life. Her bare feet were raw from walking along the rocks and pointy bits of detritus that littered the forest floor. Twice, she had tripped over a tree root and most certainly flashed Lokir with a bit more of her Hello Kitty panties than she’d ever be comfortable with. There was no denying it, they were lost. And Lokir was a terrible conversation partner. Hell, he didn’t even know what Netflix was! Asking if he preferred Marvel or DC had proven a fruitless endeavor, and he had been completely unresponsive when she tried to discuss the finer points of interior decorating. After the first hour, she had entirely given up on any hope of distracting chitchat or inane banter. It wasn’t fair. Lokir wasn’t even the fun sort of crazy.

Just as Donna was about to voice her opinion that ‘hey, we should just make camp and try again tomorrow,’ Lokir suddenly dropped to his hands and knees, crouching behind a bit of brush.

“Lokir, wha―”

“Shh! Get down!” He rasped, waving a hand back at her. “Quick, before they see us!”

Donna raised her brows at him, but followed his lead. Hopefully they had stumbled upon some sensible folk out here in these stupid woods. If not, she’d prefer to stick with the dangerous wingnut she knew, than one that might not back off when she shoved them into an open fire pit.

“You see that?” Lokir pointed a grubby finger through the leaves at something Donna couldn’t quite make out. She shuffled up behind him on her knees, wincing as a rather sharp stone decided to make a home for itself in her kneecap. “Almost walked right into that Stormcloak camp.”

_ Stormcloak? Camp? What the hell is he on about? _ Donna looked past Lokir’s dirty hand, and felt slightly more okay than she had all day.  _ Of course! It’s one of those cosplay camp things! What are they called...LARPers? _ Gabe had tried (and failed) to convince her to join him at one of those live action-roleplay retreat-thingys a couple years ago. Confident that salvation was at had, she made to crawl through the bush...when a grubby palm grabbed her shoulder.

“What are you doing!? Going in there is a death sentence!”

Oh man, clearly Lokir had been drinking too much of the kool-aid. Sighing, Donna asked him, “Well what  _ should  _ we do then?”

Lokir’s dark eyes lit up when they landed on something to his left. He turned and grinned at Donna, jerking his thumb towards an out of the ordinary sight. At least it was to Donna, who had been born and raised in the heart of suburbia, Southern Ontario.

“Can you ride, priestess?”

Donna’s eyes widened at the sight of two rather burly horses tethered off to the side of the encampment. Even from their current vantage point, the creatures were enormous, at least two metres from ears to the ground.  _ Hands, _ Donna recalled.  _ Horses are measured in hands. _ By her best estimate, both draft horses had to be at least 17 hands at the withers, easily dwarfing the ponies she used to ride at summer camp when she was a young girl. 

“Priestess?”

Donna’s face lit up in a manic grin, the expression of unbridled glee known only to adult women who had spent an entire childhood obsessing over all things horse.

 

* * *

 

**_Meanwhile, a few metres away..._ **

“By the Nine I hate the waiting, the goddamned waiting.”

“Of course you do Ern.”

“What is taking them so long? Did they get lost?”

“Shush! We’re supposed to be keeping watch!” hissed his partner, the blonde woman having long grown weary of his ceaseless chatter. “I’m sure they can hear you all the way in Solitude.”

The young soldier named Ern sighed and adjusted his spear, shuffled his feet and straightened out his blue, woolen mantle.

“I bet we have rabbit tonight.”

“Really Ern?” sighed the female soldier.

“What? I’m sick to death of rabbit!” There was a moment’s pause before he continued, “And we’re running out of bread! I hope the supplies get here soon or I’ll be eating my boots by Turdas.” 

Scowling at the impetuous Ern, the watchwoman brushed past him to patrol the perimeter. 

“Go tell the commander then,” she snarled over her shoulder at him. “I’m sure the boot to your arse will take your mind off your troubles.”

“Hey, wait!” Ern whispered as he scampered after her. “You hear something?”

“By Talos! Do you ever shut up?” She groaned, quickening her pace. “Bloody snowback…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And so Ern, my beautiful idiot OC, has reprised his role as witless stormcloak soldier #2. Talos bless you Ern, because no one else will.
> 
> If you are interested as to where exactly in Skyrim this Rift Stormcloak Camp is, I’ve placed it just north of the eastern entrance to Darkwater Pass. In game, it is actually southeast of there, closer to the Sarethi Farm. I imagine after the Imperial Ambush they decided to relocate, resulting in its in-game location.
> 
> For you imperial-using heathens, 1 metre = 3.28084 feet  
> You may notice that I will be bouncing between metric and imperial measurements. I’m trying to keep Donna true to her native Canadian use of metric, at least until she gets more acclimated to “Imperial” Skyrim ;)
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	6. In which there is that opening scene that’s been way overdone.

Rozak Mog could barely contain his displeasure, although the fierce scowl plastered across his face was doing an affable job. The thrice-damned wagon seemed hell-bent on hitting every hole, root and stone on the road as it meandered in and out of deep wheel ruts. He was sure the driver was drunk, or at least the horse―possibly both―and they seemed equally intent on thoroughly jostling him and his already battered body as he struggled miserably to keep his ass firmly on the splintering bench. This had not been his week,  _ (had it really been a week? A month? Year?) _ and judging by the general mood of his fellow prisoners, things weren’t going to be getting better any time soon.

Mog had been crammed into the wagon as an afterthought, pulled from his dank, dingy cell in the bowels of the Fort Neugrad dungeons, and now sat uncomfortably hunched between two human men. Both of said aforementioned men could have done with a bath about three weeks ago, if his burning nostrils were any indication. Of course, he was probably quite ripe himself, as being subject to torturous interrogation for days on end did not provide much opportunity for good bathing practices. 

They were shoulder-to-shoulder across the narrow bench, and neither man seemed keen on any more physical contact with him than strictly necessary. That suited Mog just fine, because as it was, he already took up almost twice as much space as either of them and he wasn’t keen on giving up an inch of it. His knees were practically up around his ears for Malacath’s sake, stuck as he was on the rattling cart as it bounced along to who-knows-where. 

Yes, things certainly weren’t going to be looking up for the foreseeable future.

_ At least, _ he thought,  _ the scenery is nice. _ He hadn’t been outside in ages, imprisoned as he was in the Imperial-held fortress for gods-only-knew how long. He raised his head to peer through the stringy locks of his hair, dark eyes taking in the passing surroundings. 

Tall, thickly trunked pines soared above them, snow-frosted boughs swaying gently in the breeze. The deep emerald greens of the coniferous forest created a stark contrast to the brilliant blue skies above; barely a cloud could be seen in his limited view through the canopy. In the distance, blue mountain peaks kissed the skies, reminding him of his lost home in the Jeralls. Dense underbrush lined the roadways, interspersed with sections of crumbling stone wall and eroding remnants of cobbles; a testament to the ancient Imperial highways that once connected the great Holds of Skyrim. The maintenance of said infrastructure had clearly fallen out of favour, if the resounding crack and precipitous lurch to the back of the wagon was any indication.

The sudden slide out the back of the wagon into a pile of groaning bodies furthered Mog’s belief that today was clearly setting itself up to be, quite possibly, the worst day of his life. 

And yes, thank you very much, that did include his recent experiences with the Imperial Legion’s personal brand of Thalmor-sanctioned hospitality.

 

* * *

 

The unexpected capsizing of the wagon had required significant shuffling of prisoners, the Imperial squadron forced to overload their charges into the remaining carts. A small detachment was left behind to repair the broken wheel, and then the caravan continued its steady march. Rozak Mog was even more cramped in his new seat, squashed alongside a particularly broad-shouldered man with shaggy blond hair, a raggedy-looking man with greasy brown locks and a stocky teenager who was plucking nervously at the edge of his sash at the back of the wagon’s bench. Across from him, from left to right, was a gagged man clad in the finest furs Mog had ever seen, a pair of women; one curiously clad in an ugly purple robe bearing yellow stars with a hood shrouding her features, and the other was slouching on the shoulder of yet another man; both sporting the same blue mantle as most of the other prisoners in the pathetic parade. _ Nords, _ whispered his mind.  _ Soldiers and thieves and a mighty lord. _ He eyed the woman in the robes again, unsure what exactly to make of her.  _ An imperial perhaps? A mage?  _ He noticed that her feet were bare, toenails an unnatural shade of sickly green.

“Hey, you,” the shaggy blond to his right nudged his shoulder. “They sure worked you over, orc.”

Mog narrowed his eyes at the man before returning his gaze to the skies.

Undeterred, the blond continued, “You were trying to cross the border, right? A smuggler?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “A spy, perhaps?”

Without even looking at the man, Mog simply shook his head and continued to watch the trees go by. Finally concluding that the orc was not going to provide stimulating conversation of any kind, he moved on to his next victim; the ragged man on Mog’s left.

“Hey, you. Walked right into that Imperial ambush, eh horse thief?”

“ Damn you Stormcloaks,” spat the man. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell by now! You there,” he elbowed Mog and made a gesture between them. “You and me ― we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“What the literal fuck Lokir, you double-crossing bastard son of a―” The robed woman kicked Lokir as hard as her bare feet would allow. It arguably hurt her more, her ghastly toenail smashing squarely into his unrelenting shin bone, leaving behind a deep pink crescent.

“Shut up back there!” 

At the threatening bark of the driver, the prisoners fell silent for a time.

The ragged man had begun anxiously looking about, clearly trying to devise some manner of escape. This carried on for a good fifteen minutes or so, until finally he slumped back with a sigh of defeat. 

“And what's wrong with him?” Raggedy nodded towards the gagged man.

“Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.” The shaggy blond glared at the horse thief, pale blue eyes flashing dangerously. Mog shifted uncomfortably between them.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you…” His face fell, his shoulders drawing in. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

The robed woman perked up at this, and seemed to be listening attentively. Mog caught the glint of silver on her face, the suggestion of black  _ something  _ around her eyes, but otherwise her features remained shadowed.

“I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

“Soven-where now?” The woman had a strange voice, the vowels sounded wrong to Mog’s ears. “What the fucking hell is going on?”

“No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening.” The horse thief was entering a panicked state and had begun rocking slightly in his seat.

“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief? The shaggy blond tried to coax the frightened man.

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.”

The ragged man’s expression softened slightly, but he was clearly still on edge. “Rorikstead. I'm...I'm from Rorikstead.”

“You guys are really taking this shit seriously, eh?” scoffed the woman. Twisting her body towards the front of the wagon, she called out to the carriage driver, “Can we call a timeout here, bud? I really need to pee…”

All passengers on the wagon, including the rude driver and his drunken sop of a horse, immediately gave her a peculiar look, to which she responded with a huff. Clearly not getting the privy-stop she requested, the woman squeezed her thighs together tightly, muttering curses under her breath. 

 

* * *

 

Donna was not pleased.

Whatever was going on with Lokir and the whole horse business had rapidly deteriorated into what looked like an all out war. Or at least, a well executed capture of an enemy base. Even with her limited knowledge of military-anything, Donna appreciated the efficiency of the orchestrated maneuver. She shook her head, whoever these idiots were, they certainly were good at keeping character. It all looked so real, right down to the blood effects. Unless that kid over there really did get a whack to the face, the poor dude. She eyed his slowly bleeding forehead, trying to find a seam on his prosthetic wound to no avail.

The guy across from her looked like he was even more die hard than the rest of them. He had covered himself entirely in green body paint, with what must have been several hundreds of dollars worth of special effects makeup. She’d taken an elective course in SPFX prosthesis in her third year of college, but this was far beyond her meager skill set. His ears! His eyes! And those big, pointy teeth! Not too mention how battered and bruised his body looked, with his perfectly placed injuries peeking out from underneath the tattered sackcloth clothes he wore. And all those muscles to go with it! That hair! He was truly glorious to behold, simply a living masterpiece. After she got herself off this stupid, teetery wagon she was going to track down the artist and get their business card. Halloween was always just around the corner, after all! And maybe she’d get  _ his  _ number too, surely he was just as handsome outside of his elaborate costume.

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!” A voice cried out, bringing her from her less than chaste thoughts. Donna couldn’t quite make out a response, distracted by the sound of Lokir’s sudden frantic wailing.

“ Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.”

“Ugh, Lokir, it’s fine.” Donna rolled her eyes at the thief’s dramatic pleading. “You just lost the game, it’s not like the world is ending...what?” Again her commentary was met with a wagon full of confused, slightly irritated faces. “Fine, whatever. Play your stupid games. As soon as I get outta here, I’m finding the nearest toilet, calling an Uber, and then, Imma get me a pizza.”

_ Mmm Pizza _ . 

_ Wait, Pizza?  _

_ PIZZA!? _

Donna blanched. It felt as if someone had stepped over her grave.

“Why are we stopping?” Lokir whimpered.

“Why do you think? End of the line.” The shaggy blond rose to his feet and the others quickly followed, ushered out by their captors. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

Lokir had to be bodily dragged from the wagon, a guard grabbing him roughly by the neck and throwing him out onto the dirt. “No! Wait! We’re not rebels! You’ve got to tell them!” His eyes rolled wildly in his skull, voice cracking in distress. “We weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

The shaggy blond helped him to his feet. “Face your death with some courage, thief.”

 

* * *

 

A rather stern, dark haired woman stood before them, her heavy steel armor more ornate than those beside her, accented with bold swatches of red and gold. Mog recognized her immediately, vision tunneling. She was the one who’d ordered him to be arrested, locked away. The Imperial Captain! He felt furious, more anger than he could ever,  _ ever  _ remember feeling, and was so very afraid at the sheer force of his own rage.

“Step toward the block when we call your name,” she commanded. “One at a time! Out of the carts, now!”

Across from the prisoners, an important-looking young man held a rather important-looking list with an unnecessarily important-looking feather quill.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” The gagged man stepped forward, green eyes blazing as he glared defiantly at the assembled soldiers. “Guilty of murder, high treason and sentenced to death. Next!”

As Ulfric stomped off, the shaggy blond could be heard muttering, “Empire loves their damn lists...”

Donna was trying to figure out exactly where she was that would have such a well-preserved, medieval village.  _ Hastings, perhaps? They did have that weird medieval camp-place... _ Obviously these LARPers were even more serious than she had thought. If it weren’t for the niggling sensation of something being not quite right in the back of her mind, she would have enjoyed taking in the craftsmanship, the high-quality, replicated architecture and fantastical costumes.  _ Vikings and Romans, did they even exist at the same time? _ It was all very beautiful, in a rustic sort of way. Not her style of course, but she could appreciate the detailed setwork.

“No, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” While she had been distracted, Lokir had made a break for it, pushing past the group of unsuspecting soldiers and heading back towards the gates. “You’re not going to kill me!”

“ARCHERS!”

Donna could only watch, transfixed by the sight of multiple, very real arrows punching through Lokir’s body as if he were made of tissue paper. He fell in a tangled heap, sprawled across the dirt. It was a truly gruesome sight to behold, but it was the spreading pool of blood emerging from beneath his crumpled corpse that did her in.

Donna fainted.

Like every simpering, cliché heroine in every story ever when things finally take a turn for the worse, Donaldina Maria King  _ fucking  _ fainted.

 

* * *

 

When the robed girl in front of him dropped like a stone after the horse thief fell, it was all he could do not to trip over her as she crashed into his legs. No one made a move towards her, so Mog bent over to check and ―

“Anyone else feel like running?” The Imperial Captain smirked maliciously at the assembled captives. Several took an instinctive step back.

“Rozak Mog gro...gro-?” The  important-looking young man peered over his list, eyes falling on Mog after searching the crowd and finding him the only orc present. “I am sorry, there seems to be a blot of ink here, could you ―”

“Next prisoner!” shouted the Captain.

Sighing, the young man apologized, “ I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Orsinium.”

Mog crossed his brows as he was directed away, very confused as to what an ‘orsinium’ was.

“I said next prisoner! And someone pick that pathetic wretch up off the ground! Being a milk-drinking little bitch won’t save any of you Stormcloak dogs from the block!”

And so it continued on, until at last every prisoner was identified, the t’s crossed, the i’s dotted and the important-looking young man rolling up his list before carefully sealing it in a leather tube. The Empire did in fact, love their damn lists, and it was his responsibility to ensure that this particular list, the record of possibly one of the most significant executions of the Fourth Era, made its way to the Emperor himself.

Too bad about that girl though, he hadn’t been able to get her name.

Hopefully they would overlook his hasty addition of one  _ Janis Cervinus _ at the bottom of the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I tried to mix it up a bit, I know how frequently this scene is re-used. Hopefully I didn’t bore you all to tears. Donna getting distracted does cut out some dialogue, but I’m sure you are all more than able to fill in the blanks.
> 
>  _Janis Cervinus_ is my feeble attempt at Jane Doe in bastardized Latin. Again, praise be to the gods of Google Translate, lords of poorly-executed language translations and overall swell dudes.
> 
> Hastings, Ontario (Canada) has a nifty medieval educational-theme-park thing, for anyone who might be remotely local. They frequent medieval fairs in the area, and are some pretty cool peeps to hang out with.
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	7. In which there is a rather nasty dragon.

There is very little that exists that can cease the flow of time, not even unconsciousness, as Donna would soon find out. The Wheels of Fate maintain their steady, unyielding rotation, having little use for such trivial distractions as, let us say, a quick coffee break, or stopping to tie one’s shoes. As such, it is little wonder that circumstances continued to evolve, irregardless of Donna’s less-than-active role in the proceedings.

That is, until she finally woke up.

_“Ulfric...cloak. Some here...a hero, but a hero...like the...murder his king and usurp his…” _

Groaning, Donna tried to rise.

_ “As we commend...blessings of the eight...Nirn, our beloved―” _

_ “For the...of Talos! Shut…” _

Unsuccessfully.

_SHHHK-THUNK!_

_ “...Imperial bastards!” _

_ “Death to...cloaks” _

_“...fearless in death_ _...in life.”_

_Wait. DEATH? What the fu―_ Before she could even continue her thought, Donna found herself roughly tossed to the ground, her knees crunching into the dirt as her chin smashed into something solid, almost causing her to bite right through her now-bleeding tongue. It was...sticky?  _Why is it sticky?’_ The coppery tang of fresh blood filled her nostrils and if she hadn’t already been kneeling, her legs would have surely given out.

Unseen hands pulled down her hood and her glasses slide forwards to the tip of her nose.

“By the Nin―er, by the Eight!”

“What in Oblivion is _that?”_

* * *

 

There was little else he could do, besides a sympathetic wince, as the headsman’s axe came down on the impatient Stormcloak’s neck. Mog felt his stomach drop to somewhere in the general vicinity of his knees as the bloodied blade was raised once more. A pair of neatly-dressed Imperial soldiers quickly removed the body, dragging it off to the side, but unfortunately not out of sight. 

Fear held him fast in an icy grip.

“Next, the craven whelp in the robes!”

Rozak Mog was going to die.

_ Rozak Mog was going to die. _

Rozak Mog was going to die, and he wasn’t even going to have the chance to take that abominal bitch of a captain with him.

And then they pulled back the hood of those ugly purple robes, and all Oblivion broke loose.

Several people swore, some gasped and others stepped back as the impossibly violet head of the otherworldly woman was revealed, statically charged strands standing on end giving further credence to her unnatural appearance.  

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, a giant-ass dragon crashed into the scene.

He, for somehow Mog knew instinctively that the dragon was a  _ he, _ was black as pitch, such that light itself could not escape the impenetrable, all-consuming darkness of his scales. A pair of glittering crimson eyes looked down upon the proceedings, watching the horrified crowd with feigned disinterest, much like a sabrecat would watch its prey. But comparing this awesome monstrosity to a mere sabrecat was like comparing a great white shark to a newborn kitten.

Death incarnate stood before them, and boy did he look hungry.

**GOLZ MAH STRUN!**

And then, it was as if the sky itself was falling. Large pieces of flaming rock rained down, indiscriminately destroying everything in their path. The man beside Mog was swiftly taken out by a flaming WHOOSH. Quickly deciding that he needed to get his ass the fuck out of there, Rozak Mog took off in a dead run, intent on putting as much distance himself and the apocalyptic scene. He was extremely fortunate in his retreat, and was met with little resistance from the Imperial soldiers. They were a bit preoccupied at the moment, what with their impending doom and all.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, girl. Get up!” Donna felt two strong, unfamiliar arms haul her to her feet. “Come on, the gods won’t give us another chance!”

Not needing to be told twice, she joined the shaggy blond soldier and hauled ass. At this point, she was almost completely certain that she was absolutely, definitely not at some sort of LARPer summer camp, as she had up until very recently believed. And was that a motherfucking  _ dragon  _ calling down his fiery fury on their fucking heads!? Despite shaking legs, Donna kept up her stumbling pace, practically falling over the shaggy blond as they crossed the threshold of what could only be called a tower.  _ A fucking tower. Brilliant. This just keeps getting better and better. _

“Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Donna was bent over, bound hands braced on her knees as she panted heavily, trying desperately to catch her breath. She was so not cut out for running. Never had been. In fact, some of her most creative excuses had been devised trying to weasel her way out of gym class back in high school. Boy, did she regret that now. Being a heavy smoker certainly wasn’t helping things either.

“Legends don't burn down villages,” said Jarl  _ (Yarl?) _ Ulfric, whom Donna recognized as her benchmate from the wagon ride. He looked at her. “And who’s this?”

“Don...Donn…” huffed out Donna, still catching her breath.

Before Ulfric could respond, a tremendous crash rang out from beyond the tower walls.

“We need to move Ralof, now!”

“Up through the tower. Let’s go!” The shaggy blond named Ralof tugged on Donna’s arm. “This way, Don-don! Move!”

Before she could correct him, Donna was dragged up through the tower, thighs burning as they climbed the steep stone stairs. They met another blue-clad soldier halfway up, who trying frantically to shift several large pieces of rubble.

“We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!” 

Just as the man finished, the dragon burst through the was, blasting flames everywhere.

“Get back!” Ralof pulled Donna behind him, almost knocking them both down the steps.

**YOL TOOR SHUL!**

_ Did the dragon just...speak? _ Before she could finish processing this new development, Ralof once again pulled her up the stairs, pointing through the newly-formed opening in the side of the tower.

“See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go!” 

“Are you fucking insane?” Donna rounded on Ralof in disbelief, bathrobe swirling. “I’ll break my fucking neck!”

It was then that Ralof abruptly tossed her out the opening, calling after her, “We'll follow you when we can!”

 

* * *

 

Mog cursed his ever-worsening luck as he came across the very important-looking man. Said man was crouched behind a collapsed wall with a ragtag collection of townspeople. He was shouting at a young boy a few yards away, who was desperately begging a dying man before him to get up.

“Papa, please get up!”

“Hamming!” shouted the very important-looking man. “You need to get over here NOW!”

The great black dragon perched on the rooftops overhead, eyeing heart-wrenching the scene below with villainous intent. By some Divine’s intervention, the boy abandoned his father and ran to cover.

**YOL TOOR SHUL!**

“Thataboy. You're doing great!“ The very important-looking man clutched the shaking child to his chest, shielding him from the sight of his father being incinerated by a fiery blast. Pushing the boy towards an silver-haired man, he finally took stock of the slightly singed orc standing behind them. “Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.” Nodding to the older man at his side, “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense.”

“Gods guide you, Hadvar,” whispered the old man as he picked up the boy, scurrying off with his fellow townsfolk.

“Come on, stay close the wall!” Hadvar ran across the clearing, Mog hot on his heels as they all but fell into the wall, crouching along an alleyway between what was once a rather well appointed house, now a smoldering wreck, and the town’s outer wall. The stone wall was almost unbearably hot, scalding their exposed skin as they clung to its protective cover. Nearing the main gate, they were welcomed by a sight of pure carnage.

The charred bodies of several Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers lay smoldering across the courtyard, one woman was weakly trying to pull herself away. Mog watched on in horror, her entire lower half missing completely, internal organs trailing behind her as she went. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat. By some cruel mercy, the dragon swooped down and snatched her in his jaws, gulping her down in one bite. Her aborted scream made the orc’s blood run cold.

“Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving!”

Rozak Mog was shaken from his disturbed reverie by the call of the man who must have been General Tullius. Hadvar grabbed Mog’s arm, pulling the stunned orsimer along. 

“It’s you and me, orc, stay close.”

The two men scrambled across the courtyard towards the doors of the keep, trying as best they could to avoid the burnt, twisted remains of fallen soldiers.

 

* * *

 

Somehow Donna managed to locate and catch up with Ralof and Ulfric. She set about doggedly following them through the chaos, praying to whomever might be listening that she make it out alive. She watched in silent horror as people were torn apart by the deadly jaws of the monstrous black dragon. Despite a lifetime of watching public-access television and blockbuster horrors, (not to mention every episode of Game of Thrones) she could not have been more unprepared for the sheer savagery of the massacre before her eyes. This was complete and utter madness. 

As they drew near what Ralof referred to as the keep, Donna saw out of the corner of her eye the orc and the very important-looking man from earlier that morning enter a similar door on the other side of the courtyard. This filled her with even more anxiety. 

There was a fucking  _ orc. _

He was right over  _ there, _ ducking into  _ that  _ doorway.

And he. 

Was. 

Real.

If all of her blood hadn’t been very recently replaced with pure adrenaline, Donna was completely certain she would have fainted once again. As it was, she wheezed along after Ralof and Ulfric into the building ahead, pushing down all thoughts of orcs, instead focusing on the dwindling chances of her survival if the dragon somehow knew how to open doors.

 

* * *

 

“So you managed to survive after all? The gods must favour you.” Ulfric’s voice was laced with scorn. He looked at Donna, examining her unusual garb and disheveled appearance with an accusing eye. “Although perhaps your involvement in recent events is of a more  _ sinister  _ nature, girl.”

Behind Ulfric, Ralof knelt before a fallen soldier, neck at an unsettling angle and eyes dull in the flickering torchlight. “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, brother,” Ralof spoke softly as he closed the dead man’s eyes.

Visibly wilting under Ulfric’s heavy scrutiny, Donna averted her gaze to the space beside his left ear and quickly spun a lie. “I’m...I’m a priestess.”

“A priestess?” scoffed Ulfric, raising a thick, blond brow. There was a thin trickle of blood running down his temple from an unseen scratch. “And whom do you call patron? Surely not Talos, nor Mara or Kyne?”

“I’m...uh...I’m...undeclared?” she tried pathetically, stumbling over her words.

If Ulfric kept narrowing his eyes like that, she was certain his face would stick that way.

Sighing, Ulfric pinched his brow and turned to Ralof. “Let’s get her untied, Ralof. Find yourself a weapon and get this one,” he jerked his thumb roughly at Donna. “Some armor. Anything would be better than what she’s wearing.”

It was Donna’s turn to play the narrow-eyes-glare game.

Still kneeling before the dead soldier, Ralof waved her over. “You may as well take Gunjar’s gear, Don-don, he won’t be needing it anymore.” He began stripping the man of his armor, unwrapping the scorched blue mantle and pulling off the mail shirt beneath. Holding it up to a mortified Donna, he shook it in her direction. “Best get this armor on, who knows what dangers we’ll find further in.”

The heavy chainmail shirt was a horrible fit, loose through the top and snug in the hips, reaching down to her knees and completely covering her purple bathrobe. Ralof passed her Gunjar’s leathers and boots next, and then helped her into a thick leather belt that barely closed around her waist. The leather trousers ended up being another poor fit, she wasn’t even able to get them up past her thick thighs. The boots fit, but were several sizes too large for her size nine-and-a-half feet. As she could barely lift the late Gunjar’s heavy steel axe, she instead had a dagger pressed into her sweaty palm with the ever-so-useful instructions of “stick’em with the pointy end.” 

_ Awesome. Just bloody fabulous. _

They were just about done with Donna’s fashion montage when two Imperial soldiers ran down the hall just outside of the entryway.

“Come on soldier, keep moving!” Donna identified the speaker as the Imperial Captain, swallowing hard at the memory of the nasty woman.

“It’s the Imperials! Take cover!” hissed Ralof, plastering Donna between himself and the nearest wall. He absolutely  _ reeked  _ of sweat, smoke and blood. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the horrid scent clung to the back of her throat, tasting as bad as it smelt.

_ Blech. _

Once it appeared that the enemy soldiers had passed, Ulfric carefully opened the gate that separated them from the inner part of the keep. Whispering a solemn “thank you” to Gunjar’s mostly naked corpse, Donna was surprised to notice that he had been one of the soldiers beside her on the wagon. Her stomach lurched at the thought. 

The unlikely trio crept through the halls, silence only broken by the sounds of destruction and death raining down outside.

“We need to find our way out of here and quickly,” said Ulfric in hushed tones. “The dragon’s determined to have this tower down by the sound of it…”

“No shit,” replied Donna. Her comment was met with a glare  _ (did this man have any other expressions?) _ from Ulfric and an undignified snort of humour from Ralof.

It was that moment that the ceiling behind them collapsed.

_ Fan-fucking-tastic, _ thought Donna.

 

* * *

 

“Looks like we’re the only ones who made it. Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?”

Mog looked incredulously at Hadvar before brushing past him. His focus on the weapon rack across the room that held what looked like several promising blades.

“Wait, orc! Come here, let me get those bindings off.”

Sneering at the no longer rather important-looking man, Mog turned and flexed his burly muscles. The ropes burst apart with shocking ease. It must have looked quite impressive, if Hadvar’s stunned expression was anything to go by. Of course, it would not have been remotely possible for him before their escape through dragonfire, which had scorched the ropes significantly and weakened the hempen fibres. Mog would not be sharing that particular tidbit of information, choosing instead to grab what he hoped was the sharpest sword from the rack and giving in a few practice swings.

It looked like they had entered through some sort of barracks, if the line of uncomfortable-looking beds and wooden footlockers was any indication. Hadvar set about rummaging through the room, muttering something about armor and healing potions. He appeared suddenly at Mog’s elbow, almost causing the startled orc to drop his sword, holding out what looked like a leather cuirass and some iron greaves.

“I don’t think much else will fit you, prisoner,” he tried, searching the temperamental orc’s face to gauge his reaction. Rozak Mog took the proffered gear with a gruff “thanks” and quickly dressed himself. It was a very tight fit, and the cuirass didn’t come close to lacing up, but it would provide far more protection than the rags he wore. Unfortunately, there were no boots that would fit his large feet, but he would make do without. 

Together, they made their way through the barracks and further into the keep, Hadvar leading the way through the maze of halls. From outside, the preternatural cries of the dragon could be heard, barely muffled by the thick stone walls. After several twists and turns, Hadvar held back an arm. 

“Hear that? Stormcloaks.”

Mog grunted in response.

“Maybe we can reason with them?”

Scowling, Mog pushed past Hadvar and entered the room.

“We need to get moving! That dragon is tearing up the―” The pair of Stormcloak soldiers took notice as the orc entered their presence. “You, orc! You were with us on the carts, weren't you? Not your lucky day, eh? If ye be loyal to Ulfric’s cause, join us in our escape!”

Mog rolled his eyes,  _ Nords _ he thought. Stepping aside, both Stormcloaks gasped as he pointed to Hadvar lurking in the doorway. All hands immediately flew to their weapons, but merely Mog shook his head. “This one knows the way out,” Hadvar stepped shyly into the room, sensing Mog’s ploy. “Kill him now, we won’t get out of here alive.”

A tense moment passed between the four men before the older of the two Stormcloaks sheathed his blade, relenting to Mog’s sound reasoning. “The orc speaks the truth, Ern.” He motioned for the younger, stockier man to do the same. “As for you, Imperial  _ dog _ ,” he spat. “Orc, make sure you keep your pet on a tight leash.”

It wasn’t easy-going, but ramshackle group reached an unspoken alliance as they continued the slow descent through the crumbling keep. Every now and then, a particularly loud BOOM would echo through the building, knocking loose debris from the ceiling and walls. They eventually reached a caved-in hallway, the soldier Ern groaning at the dead end until Hadvar revealed a hidden side passage through a supply cupboard. This seemed to endear him to the wary men, that is, until they entered what could only be described as a torture chamber.

“Gods, I wish we didn’t need these,” sighed Hadvar, looking just as disturbed by the sight as his Stormcloak companions. The older soldier was about to round on him, wicked-looking axe drawn, when a malicious voice cut through the room.

“You fellows happened along just in time!” A rather unpleasant man rose to his feet before them, wiping his blade on the tattered blue sash of a fallen female Stormcloak. “These boys look quite upset at how I'd been entertaining their comrades.” His twisted smile was missing several teeth.

Hadvar blanched, hand drawing to his side, fingers fumbling with the hilt of his sword. “Don't you even know what's going on? A dragon is attacking Helgen!” His trembling hands finally found his blade, drawing it up defensively and stepping out in front of the two seething Stormcloaks. “Let us pass, there isn’t time to lose!”

The old torturer cackled, swinging his sickle-blade in a wide vertical circle at his side.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Hadvar cried, as the man advanced on them. “I said the keep is under attack!”

Before anyone could utter another word, a dagger sprouted from the side of the Imperial torturer’s neck, perfectly piercing his jugular and dropping him to the ground with a THUMP. Three sets of eyes followed the dagger’s trajectory, landing disbelievingly on Ern. The young man sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, a second dagger still held his free hand. Mog clasped the lad briefly on the shoulder in silent approval as he passed him, intent on examining the rest of the chamber. With his back now to the others, Rozak Mog felt a prickling sensation at the back of his eyes. His chest was tightening, as if caught in the fist of some unseen giant. Trying desperately to mask his discomfort, he bent over a nearby table, keeping his face away from the others. On the table, there was a tattered knapsack, empty save for a few slivers of metal,  _ (lockpicks?) _ , a small red vial and a leather bound book.  _ Book _ , thought Mog,  _ why do I know this? What is a book, anyways?  _ He grabbed the knapsack, slinging it over his shoulder.

While the orc was preoccupied, Hadvar and the Stormcloaks stumbled upon an unexpected discovery in a metal cage. Laying at the furthest wall was the emaciated figure of an old mage, for all intents and purposes appearing dead to the world except for the occasional chest-rattling wheeze. The three men struggled with the door, but were unable to get past the heavy iron lock.

“Hey, orc!”

Mog was seriously getting tired of this ‘hey, orc’ business, but he made his way to the others, hoping they wouldn’t take notice of his unsteady gait.

“Think you can get this open?” Hadvar gestured towards the lock.

Rozak Mog peered into the cage, eyes falling on the decrepit human within. Withdrawing the lockpicks he’d taken from the pack, he tried to pick the lock. Lor had often made a game of teaching Mog to use lockpicks, it helped pass the time on the lonely nights between his and Lor’s visits. Of course, Mog had never been particularly  _ good  _ at picking locks, much to the amusement of his bosmer friends. Abandoning the lock and the now-broken pick, he grabbed the edge of the cage door with both hands, using brute strength to accomplish what the delicate lockpicking had not. Now successfully removed from the rusted hinges, Ern picked up the discarded door, eyeing the mighty orc with renewed admiration. The way now clear, Hadvar crept in beside the dying mage.

“Sir, can you hear me?” Hadvar gently touched the elderly man’s boney shoulder.

Gasping, the old man shot up. Drawing his skeletal arms up defensively, he tried to cram himself into the far corner of the cage. Feral silver eyes rolled in his skull, before finally landing on Mog’s hulking form.

“You!” A gnarled finger extended forwards, disbelief written across the man’s face.

“...Me? Do you know me, old man?”

“I...I know―” 

And with that, the tortured old man clutched his chest tightly, eyes rolling back in his head, and died. The human men could not contain their curiosity as they all eyed Rozag Mog, who could do nothing other that look extremely confused at the unlikely turn of events. 

Today was clearly, quite possibly, the worst day of his life.

 

* * *

 

“An old storeroom. See if you can find some potions, girl. Might come in handy.”

Donna shuffled around Ralof and Ulfric, doing as she was bid. There was no point in protesting, as Ulfric had pointed out to her after the ceiling collapsed, staying with them would be the only way she might make it out of here alive. She found an empty sack and began filling it with as many of the small glass vials as she could find, too stressed to even admire how beautifully they shimmered in the flickering light of Ralof’s torch. A few reds, a couple greens and, some blues. Hopefully these meager offerings would appease her protectors.

“Done then?” Hadvar asked her, peeking into her bag. “Hold on to these, Don-don.”

“Yes, by the looks of things she’ll be the most likely to need them. This way, Ralof.” Ulfric strode through the room, head held high and weapon at the ready. “Let’s get moving.”

“Come on, priestess. Let’s get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads.”

Carefully slinging the clinking sack over her shoulder, Donna picked her way across the room, valiantly trying to keep from tripping in her too-large boots. The trio eventually came to a fork in their path, two dark hallways stretching out before them.

“What do you think, Ralof?” Ulfric turned to the man. “Left or right, kinsman?”

Ralof stood deep in thought, stroking a grimy hand over his short beard as he did.

“Seriously dudes? Just flip a coin, eenie-meenie-minie-mo, anything!” Both men stared at her with raised brows.

“Flip a...coin?”

“Eenie what?”

“Speak plainly, woman!”

After adjusting the bag of potions to her other shoulder, Donna stepped forwards between the two passageways. Feeling like a total idiot, she raised her hand and performed her preferred childhood decision-making tactic:

_      Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, _ __   
_     Catch a tiger by the toe. _ __   
_     If he hollers, let it go, _ _   
_ __     Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.

“Left,” she said definitively, daring either man to correct her.

Ulfric and Ralof shared a bewildered glance before following her lead, Ulfric muttering something about it “being as good a method as any, I suppose.” 

Ralof was slightly more interested in her little rhyme, asking her, “Was that a spell, are some sort of mage, priestess?”

She replied with what she hoped was a confident, reassuring smile, which was more a tooth-baring grimace than anything else. “Eh, something like that, I guess.”

Eventually they came to a wooden barred wooden door, Ralof made short work of it with his axe, allowing them to pass through a splintered opening in the rotted wood. On the other side was a rather rusty lever and another wooden barrier. Ralof pulled the lever, muscles bulging with the effort, stating, “Let’s see where this goes…”

Just as the drawbridge thudded down across the passageway, there was a great rumbling from above. It sounded as though the dragon was trying to bring down the entire building on their heads. Donna sprinted behind Ralof, practically shoving him aside as she tried to avoid the resulting cave-in. Never let it be said that she wasn’t a strict believer of self-preservation.

When the dust settled, Donna and Ralof realized that Ulfric was nowhere to be seen.

“Ulfric?”

“Ralof?”

“Are you alright my Jarl?”

“Go now!” Ulfric’s muffled voice carried through the rubble. “For your own sake, get going!”

“But Ulfric!”

**“GO!”** This time, Ulfric’s voice seemed to rattle the very stones themselves.

“May Talos shield you from harm, my Jarl.” Ralof looked distraught, but he squared his shoulders, motioning for Donna to follow him as they entered the bowels of the keep. “No going back that way, now. We’d better push on. Ulfric will find another way out.” He said that last part more to convince himself than Donna, who was secretly relieved to finally be free from the presence of the horrible, gruff bastard.

Ulfric Stormcloak could, as far as Donna was concerned, go fuck himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And so our biggest of baddies rears his pointy head. In game, we never hear his Meteor Storm shout, so I played around on Thu’um.org until made up something semi-believable. GOLZ MAH STRUN translates roughly to ROCK FALL STORM.
> 
> If you’d like to experience the joys of escaping with Ralof AND Ulfric during the opening sequence, I highly recommend the mod _Opening Scene Overhaul_. It adds a whole bunch of new dialogue to the carriage scene and a new (arguably better) voice for Hadvar, as well as fixing several minor errors Bethesda decided to let slide.
> 
> I’ll try to point out other relevant mods I might refer to throughout the story, but if I miss any, I’d like to apologize in advance. I know how much effort mod creators put into their work and I am eternally grateful that they decide to share their creations with us lowly peasants.
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.  
> Fixed VOL to YOL, thanks SaroNeko for catching that typo! I bequeath unto thee a theoretical internet cookie!


	8. In which revenge is sworn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta share my dudes, every time I see another kudos, my face goes all scrunched-up-smiley and I get the feel good tingles all the way to my toes.  
> You are AWESOME.

Somehow between the multiple dead-ends and meandering hallways, not to mention the fucking ceiling coming down around their ears, Mog and Hadvar had become separated from their Stormcloak companions. This was, of course, no big deal to Hadvar―the older Stormcloak had heavily insinuated that they would be killing him once his usefulness had run out―but Mog couldn’t help missing the company of the plucky young soldier named Ern. Much like the elven twins, Latta and Lor, he had developed an alarmingly quick fondness for the lad. Despite his best efforts, Mog couldn’t help the feeling of sadness as a result of the lad’s absence, and without the threatening presence of the wary Stormcloaks, Hadvar was making short work of the orc ’s rapidly dwindling patience.

“We better push on. I'm sure that the others will find another way out,” Hadvar declared solemnly. “Coming, orc?”

The two men, one human and one not, walked side-by-side when space allowed, though Rozak Mog was trying in vain to keep as much space between them as possible. Now a safer distance from the chaos above, he took a moment to take proper stock of his Imperial escort.

The man’s features seemed all too round to Mog, but he couldn’t remember seeing many faces beyond his own and his bosmer friends’ (and those gold-skinned bastards from the dungeon), all of which were quite angular by comparison. Before this whole ordeal with the Imperial Legion had begun, he couldn’t have told you the differences between the races of man, let alone the visual differences in the types thereof. Now through forced exposure, memories he hadn’t even known existed were beginning to emerge from the shrouded depths of his mind. At some point before the ravine, it seemed, he had known Man or at least been familiar with them.

Hadvar wasn’t as short as most of the humans Rozak Mog had encountered, the top of his head reached just below his own nose. Straight, brown hair fell to an even length at his chin and his jaw was square and clean-shaven. No longer did the Imperial list-keeper possess his previous air of importance, covered in soot and grime much like Mog himself. His armor and clothing was ripped and torn, having long since lost its polished shine. The orc was surprised to realize that, unlike the name his military affiliation suggested, Hadvar appeared to be of Nord blood. As to the exact distinctions between an Imperial and a Nord human, Rozak Mog was still unsure. Still, something in his injured brain seemed to know, and that was good enough for him. 

At least for now.

“So...from where do you hail, prisoner?” inquired the brunet, as he casually picked his way over a collapsed wooden beam.

Grunt went Mog.

“Your people live in strongholds, do they not? I’ve never seen an orc stronghold myself, but I’ve heard…”

Groan went Mog.

“So your names, they usually go ‘gro-’ something, right? Unless you are a lady-orc, I think they use ‘gra-’ instead...that denotes your stronghold, right? Orc?”

Mog ground his teeth violently and pressed on.

“On the list...I couldn’t make out yours, you know? There was an ink blot. An ink blot! I simply cannot imagine what  _ s’wit  _ would have let such a mistake slide, and on such an important document! After all…”

At this point, if they had still been aboveground, Mog would have willingly flung himself into the dragon’s mouth.

“I hear you orsimer worship a Daedric Prince? Now which one was it…” Hadvar tapped a dirty finger to his lips and he thought. “Mal-something...Mara, no that’s not right. Mala...Malacath? Right?” He stopped, grey eyes searching the scowling orc’s face. “Orc?”

Things went on in this irritating manner for some time as Mog and Hadvar continued on through the labyrinthine passages beneath the crumbling town of Helgen. The uniform masonry of the keep walls eventually gave way to a more natural rock formation as they headed deeper and deeper underground.

“Orc?” Clearly Hadvar couldn’t take a hint, despite Mog’s very transparent refusal to participate in his inane chatter. “Prisoner?” He frowned, quickening his pace to catch up with Mog’s longer stride. “Hey, you―”

Rozak Mog abruptly came to a halt, Hadvar bouncing off his broad back and falling onto his backside on the cold, rocky ground.

“Mog,” said Mog. “Rozak Mog. Not ‘orc’, or ‘you’, or ‘prisoner’. My name. Is. Mog.” The orc ignored Hadvar clumsily rising to his feet, jumping down a short ledge instead. Sharp pain danced along the soles of his bare feet as he landed on several small, pointy pebbles. Ignoring his own discomfort, Mog set off along a small, rambling stream, instinct telling him that following the water’s course would lead them to, well, something better.

“Well met then, Rozak Mog.” Hadvar muttered, scrambling down the slippery stones after the grumpy orsimer.

 

* * *

 

The pair continued on through the underground cavern, following the water until they could no longer, as it came to an iron grate stuck fast in a thick wall of rock. The only way forward was a narrow side passage, dimly lit by the occasionally glowing mushroom that seemed to thrive in the dark, damp tunnels. The soft aqua light cast eerie shadows as they passed through a particularly tight, twisting section. The walls caught at their clothing and scraped their armor, covering them in some sort of sticky substance that pulled away from the walls, leaving pale threads behind that waved like gossamer banners in their wake. When the passage finally widened again, they were met with a rather unpleasant sight.

“Rozak Mog,” breathed Hadvar. “What-what is that?” He pointed down into the chamber below them.

Both men squinted through the gloom.

“Is that a…?”

Mog issued a short grunt in reply.

“Are we gonna…?”

Grunt went Mog again, not trusting himself to provide any further commentary as unease crept up his spine. He quashed it furiously, this was no time for fear, after all.

“After you then?”

With a fierce roar, Mog raised his sword, the Imperial-issue steel sweeping through the thick webbing that blocked the way down into the cavernous chamber before launching himself into the fray. Hadvar followed closely behind, blade held defensively in front of his chest, his heart beating a violent tattoo against his ribcage as he finally took a good, unobscured look at their eight-legged foes. 

The ensuing battle between man, orc and giant-ass motherfucking spiders went about as well as could be expected, although with significantly more poisonous bites and venomous spit than was entirely necessary, in Mog’s humble opinion. Hadvar using him as a meatshield was also something that left much to be desired from his fighting companion, but we just can’t have  _ everything, _ now can we?

Emerging triumphant, albeit covering in webbing, swelling bites, copious amounts of spider goo and itchy bits of arachnid hair, Hadvar and Mog stood side by side, chests heaving from exertion.

“What next,” Hadvar panted. “Giant snakes?”

Mog rolled his eyes at the shorter man and ruffled his hair affectionately...wiping his hand free of spider guts as he did before heading off down the winding tunnel at a loping pace. He was even more eager to get the Oblivion out of the thrice-damned cave. He prayed to Malacath that frostbite spiders would be the worst thing they would find down here, not looking forward to another round of combat alongside the scribe-turned-fighter.

“Hey, wait!” Hadvar chased after him, trying his best to scrape the gunk from his mussed up hair as he went. “Mog, you bloody orc bastard! I am not a towel―”

Behind the retreating figures lay a mound of the mangled, twitching remains of several very large, very dead frostbite spiders. Viscous strands of nauseating green gore dripped from the severed limbs and butchered carapaces. From beneath the repulsive pile of slaughtered arachnid, a small spiderling emerged. Raising a tiny foreleg, it shook it viciously at the fading figures down the tunnel, swearing an oath of itsy-bitsy, spiderly revenge.

 

* * *

 

Giving a wide berth to the tunnel that split off from their own, one which Ralof swore up and down was most likely chock full of something called frostbite spiders, Donna and her Stormcloak escort ventured further into the underground caves beneath the keep. Judging by the sheer size of the webbing that lined the entrance to the aforementioned tunnel (not to mention Ralof’s casual description that amounted to giant-ass arachnoid monstrosities from the deepest, darkest depths of Hell), Donna was perfectly content to avoid what she was sure would blow away the 2002 comedy-horror ‘Eight-Legged Freaks’ as a top contender for spider-powered nightmare fuel. Eyeing the opening warily as she passed, Donna missed seeing the slight rise in the ground. Landing on her face and knees, she groaned in pain.

“All right there?” Ralof loomed over her, smirking at the indignant expression on her face as she tugged the mail shirt back over her bloody knees.

“Go fuck yourself, bud.”

Reluctantly Donna allowed Ralof to help her to her feet, feeling the sting of air on her skinned kneecaps. Her nose wasn’t feeling much better, and her glasses were bent awkwardly at the nosepiece, the abused polymers in the plastic frames turning white at multiple stresspoints. 

_ I don’t even think I’m on my parents’ health insurance anymore. Replacing these is gonna be a real kick in the wallet. Why, oh why is this awful Dungeons and Dragons bullshit happening to me? _

 

* * *

 

As often happens when two sociable people are thrust into situations where they must endure long periods of uncomfortable silence, Donna and Ralof began talking.

“Tell me about yourself, priestess? Your family?”

“There isn’t really much to tell...oh alright then! No need for puppy-dog eyes, you big brute!” Donna teased him playfully, hoping to add some levity to their otherwise miserable situation. “Let’s see…” 

She settled into the conversation joyfully. Despite her recent stint as a depressed shut-in, Donna was a gregarious person by nature. Whether this had anything to do with her being a Leo, or merely just someone who enjoyed hearing the sound of her own voice, it was up for debate. Probably both, if one was being honest.

“I grew up in a small town, southwest of an enormous city―no, it’s not the capitol―Toronto they call it, or the T-dot, GTA, the Six, whatever…”

Ralof listened the odd woman with genuine interest. He found himself enjoying the play of emotions across her face and her wild hand gestures as she told him of her strange, faraway home and the family she’d left behind. Despite her accent being unplaceable and her vernacular unquestionably foreign, her genuine enthusiasm for amiable conversation was undeniable.

“I’ve got two older brothers and an older sister, Ramón, Dougie and Carina. I don’t know them too well though, they all left home when I was just a kid after all. I was an oops-baby, mom and dad didn’t think they could have any more children you see...I think that’s what really drove a wedge between them. Of course...”

They came across a small stream, barely more than a trickle in parts as it cut through the rocky floor. Donna joined Ralof in stopping for a quick drink, sputtering as the water left fine grit in her mouth. After a thorough tongue-scraping for Donna, and a good belly laugh for Ralof, they continued on.

“Well, anyways, that’s my most  _ immediate  _ family. I’ve also got seven nieces and nephews, sixteen cousins on my mom’s side and twelve on my dad’s. Don’t even get me started on second and third cousins, or we could be here all day. Oh! All of my grandparents are somehow still alive and kicking, although I think abuelo Ramón is on his way out. Poor old bastard is just  _ riddled  _ with cancer…”

The torch had long since extinguished and their path was lit only by the eerie aqua glow emanating from clusters of phosphorescent fungus that lined the walls. When she carefully pried off a mushroom cap, Donna was pleasantly surprised to find it continued to emit its soft light. She tucked it into her belt, thinking herself rather clever until Ralof pointed out that it might be poisonous. The force of another mushroom being tossed at the back of his head was Donna’s only response to his unsolicited commentary. 

“What about you, eh? You got a family back home, my dude?”

“Aye, I do, though we aren’t near as prolific as your people,” he said with a wink. “I can't remember the last time I visited home. Think I've forgotten what a proper bed looks like, let alone feels like...”

Donna silently agreed, although she knew he had probably gone a far longer time than she with seeing his home or bed. Still, she felt a kinship to the man’s situation.

“I was raised in the town of Riverwood, brought up with my older sister Gerdur by our pa. He raised us to work the mill, like his father, and his father’s father before him...that’s where Riverwood got its name, you know? Whole town’s practically our family legacy…” 

A brief sadness crossed his face, his hand coming up to twist nervously at a braided section of his shaggy mane. It was obvious to Donna that despite his willing role as a soldier in whatever crazy war she’d stumbled into, he wasn’t too keen on being away from his ancestral home, nor his family. 

“What about your sister, eh?” Donna asked, hoping to draw him out of his melancholy. “She married? Got any nieces or nephews?”

That brought a smile back to the big blond’s face. “Aye to both, priestess. Gerdur married well, a big ol’ brute of a Nord named Hod. Helps work the mill, strong enough to do the logging all by his self! They have a lad, Frodnar. Named him after pa, she did…”

Their reminiscing eventually petered out, only the sounds of their footsteps breaking the unsettling quiet of the caves. The oppressive, claustrophobic nature of the tunnels was wearing on Donna’s already frazzled nerves.

“Hey, uh, Ralof?”

“Yes, priestess?”

“I don’t suppose I can bum a dart off you, eh?”

Ralof stopped in his tracks and gave her what she was beginning to identify simply as ‘da fuck?’ An expression it seemed she could inspire in just about everyone she had met so far on this strange journey, just by opening her mouth. Truly, it was quite a talent.

“Um...a dart? A cigarette?” 

A second raised brow joined Ralof’s first.

She tried again, “A, uh...a smoke?”

“You want to smoke a pipe? Now?” inquired Ralof incredulously, experiencing yet another bout of the recurring confusion he had come to associate with the strange young woman.

“A pipe? No, gross.” She stuck out her tongue with a  _ blech. _ “Oh nevermind. Let’s just focus on getting the hell out of here.”

“Hold up.”

Donna stopped mid-stride, awkwardly holding one foot off the ground. “What?” she hissed.

“There's a bear just ahead. See her?” Ralof nodded his head at the darkness ahead of them. “I'd rather not tangle with her right now. Let's try to sneak by.”

Standing there like some sort of chainmail flamingo, Donna forgot how to breathe. “A  _ bear _ ?” she squeaked, wavering unsteadily on one foot.

“Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step.” Ralof appeared beside her elbow, gently nudging her towards a low outcropping. “That’s it, just keep moving.”

His voice was so close, and she could feel his breath on her ear. She was grateful that somewhere along the way through the keep, she had grown accustomed to the scent of unwashed Ralof that continuously invaded her nostrils, but it was still super gross. And why did he keep grabbing her like that? Obviously he was not familiar with the philosophical teachings of the great Emperor Kuzco. 

_ Ugh, he’s one of those touchy-feely bastards. Great. _

Ralof assisted her in dropping down the short ledge, his strong arms letting her down gently until her boots hit the ground. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “I'll follow your lead and watch your back.”

Donna swallowed hard.

This w _ as not  _ going to go well.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

So maybe she was being a touch dramatic, but holy shit, this was the closest Donna had  _ ever  _ been to a bear without some sort of zoological-containment device between them. She didn’t even like bears. Not even teddy bears when she was a child! This had to be some sort of cosmic joke at her expense. Fucking bears!? What next, lions and tigers? Giant snakes?

And just why had Ralof let her go first?

Oh no.

She was  **bait.**

_ That motherfucker. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: One day we’ll get out of Helgen kids, one day…
> 
> I do intend to go back and embellish upon the whole story at a later date. In my notes I’ve broken it down into parts based on the three “acts” of the original Main Quest storyline, so maybe once I finish this act I’ll go back over everything and flesh things out more. I’m playing things a bit fast and loose as I lay out the overlying plotlines, this story started as a few jotted ideas on some scrap paper so there is definitely a lot of edits and adjustments in its future.
> 
> Emperor Kuzco, the great Disney emperor/philosopher, is known for such groundbreaking, controversial theories, such as the “No Touchie” principle of back-the-fuck-off dude.
> 
> PSA: Smoking isn’t cool kiddos, Donna is just a dumbass who gave in to peer pressure.
> 
>  
> 
> _Watch out Mog, tiny spider gonna fuck you up, bud…_
> 
>  
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	9. In which there is a bit of magic.

Contrary to Donna’s belief that Ralof had intentionally led her to her untimely doom  _ vis-a-vis _ cavebear, it had been completely accidental on his part. No, really! Once his Jarl had unexpectedly been removed from their company, the strange woman had relaxed―at least as much as someone trying to flee from the destructive dragon-pocalypse happening just outside could relax―and had even proved despite her outlandish appearance, she was just as affable a lass as any other he’d encountered. Sure, her hair was unsettling, and she had more metal sticking into her face than any Redguard corsair he’d ever met, not to mention how oddly she spoke with such unabashed candor about anything and everything! Wherever this priestess had come from, this  _ Taran-toh, Ka’Nadha, _ it was unlike anywhere he had ever heard of in his entire life. 

And she had made a point to correct his grievous error in his mispronunciation of her name, although he was certain he had heard her say Don-don earlier, and not Donna. Jokingly, he had still referred to her as Don-don, and to his surprise he discovered that contrary to her perceived lack of athleticism, she possessed a particularly vicious kick. He would definitely have bruises for weeks, despite his thick hide boots.

But now, Ralof was kicking himself as he watched Donna from his vantage above. The  _ slap-slap-slap _ of her too-large boots was anything but quiet, echoing loudly off the cave walls.  _ What in Talos’ name was I thinking? She’s going to get herself killed. Why, oh why…  _ There was no way the bear hadn’t heard her. His blue eyes squinted into the gloom, trying to pick up any sign of  movement in the slumbering beast’s shadowy bulk. Any minute now, he expected to hear a fearsome roar, followed, of course, by a shrill feminine shriek. Ralof reached up, fingers clutching the battered amulet of Talos he wore tucked under his mail. The weight of the metal charm was familiar in his hand, as was the reverent action; both had been inherited from his pa. Ralof sent a silent prayer to Talos one behalf of his new friend and held his breath.

 

* * *

 

_ ¡Mierda! He’s trying to get me killed! _ Donna was internally screaming as she valiantly (failed) to sneak past the sleeping bear. She could hear her traitorous boots  _ slap-slapping _ with every carefully (or not) placed step, could feel her heart pounding (surely so loud the bear could hear it too) in her ears. Allowing herself a quick peek over her shoulder, she almost stumbled from the look of complete and utter panic on Ralof’s face. His eyes were so open impossibly wide, she might have mistaken him for a slow loris. His mouth hung open, beard brushing the top of his shirt.  _ ¡Dios mío!  _ Donna almost gave herself whiplash with the speed at which she turned her head back to the bear. Who was...was…

Who wasn’t moving  _ at all. _

Like, not even an ear flick.

Or a groan, or whatever noise bears make.

Hell, not even a fart.

_ Well fuck my tits and call me Phyllis!  _

Apparently this bear ascribed to the same dead-to-the-world sleeping practices as her mother. Letting out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding in, Donna began her less than sneaky bumbling with renewed vigor. This would be just like sneaking out on Saturday nights when she’d been a teenager. She could do this! She could―

CRUNCH.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Donna waited for the much-anticipated RAWR of the bear...which didn’t come. At all. Not even a peep.

“Tabernac,” she cursed.

 

* * *

 

Ralof could only watch on in horror as Donna brought her too-large boot down on what he believed to be a human skull. The resounding CRUNCH caused his white-knuckled grip on the ledge to tighten, and then his hands were clenched on nothing but two fistfulls of dirt as he came tumbling headlong into the ground. He landed in a crumpled heap, but quickly righted himself and jumped to his feet. Drawing both of his axes, he threw himself between a very frightened Donna and the charging cavebear. 

Who was still, it seemed, blissfully unaware of anything that had transpired and still very much asleep.

Uncoiling from their respective defensive poses, Ralof’s being a protective stance, while Donna’s being more of a pathetic cower, the two shared a look. After a series of silent hand gestures between them, ending with Donna slapping a hand to her forehead, Ralof took several cautious steps towards the slumbering behemoth. If he hadn’t been trying to get her killed before, he was certainly going to now.

His tentative scouting turned into a more intensive investigation. The bear, it seemed, was not sleeping. No, the bear was, as far as Ralof could tell, very much dead. Especially if the rather gory chunk missing from the far side of its skull was any indication. Not to mention several weeping arrow holes and the signs of a rather brutal stabbing through one of its eyes… Yes, the sleeping bear was sleeping, but not a slumber from which it would ever awaken again. At least, not on Nirn.  _ Talos be praised! _ The blond man smiled to himself in the darkness.  _ We might just make it out of here yet! _

It didn’t take much convincing to assure to Donna that the beast was dead. Despite her immediate response to seeing the mortal wounds being to puke on his boots, she seemed very much relieved. And her promise to wash said boots for him as soon as they found water was apology enough, Ralof himself being too pleased by the unexpected turn of events to give much thought to any feelings of mild irritation or disgust. They had just survived an encounter with a bloody  _ cavebear, _ dead or otherwise, and  _ that  _ was something worth far more than a bit of vomit.

“Hey, Ralof!”

“What is it, priestess Donna?”

“Look! I see light up ahead. Daylight!”

The pair made their way to the light, feeling their spirits rise at the prospect of finally feeling sunlight on their skin once more.

 

* * *

 

“Wait!”

An enormous shadow passed overhead, so large and dark it seemed to block out the sun.

“Looks like he’s gone for good this time. But I don’t wan―”

Four bodies collided, landing in an undignified heap outside the entrance of a narrow cave.

“Ralof?”

“Hadvar?”

“RALOF!”

“HADVAR!”

As soon as they had all disentangled from each others’ thrashing limbs, both men had immediately drawn their weapons. They were now pointing the deadly blades towards one another with murderous intent. Unsure what exactly was expected of her, and feeling oddly left out, Donna turned to the imposing figure of the large orc-man. Attempting (pathetically) to mirror the aggressive posturing of the rival soldiers, she gestured vaguely at him with her little knife, the only weapon Ralof had deemed her competent enough to wield.

“Uh, Rorschach Mag!?”

The large green man blinked at her. 

Twice.

“Oh wait! Rosart Mug? Right? Is that it?”

Again, he merely blinked, this time raising a single thick, black brow.

“C’mon man, I’m terrible with names! Help me out a bit, eh?”

Giving her one final sweeping glance before side-eyeing Ralof and Hadvar, the orc turned and began picking his way down the overgrown hillside path.

“Hey, uh guys?” Donna tried to get the attention of the soldiers, who were now circling each other. Neither seemed to pay her any mind, prefering to trade insults instead.

“You Imperial dog!”

“You damned traitor!!”

“Er, guys?”

“Thalmor boot-licker!”

“Rebel scum!”

“HEY! FUCKHEADS!”

Well now that had certainly gotten their attention. The pair of them had been at each other's throats, sword meeting axe with mere inches between their faces. Donna’s sudden outburst had taken them by surprise, both dropping their blades fractionally in response to her entirely unladylike behaviour. 

Trying to force her face into what she hoped was a casually confident, yet winning smile, she pointed with her knife towards the orc...who was now several yards away. “So, I’m just gonna head on down the hill with ol’ Robert Meg or whatever his name is. You boys have fun killing each other or whatever it is you people do, eh?” 

Donna set off down the path, boots still comically  _ slap-slapping _ against the ground as she went. Once she judged herself to be a reasonably safe distance away, she looked back over her shoulder at the still stunned Ralof and Hadvar. With a gleam of mischief in her eyes, she embraced her inner shit-disturber and shouted back up at them. “Unless of course, you’re gonna get over your stupid squabbling and just  _ fuck  _ each other, in which case maybe I’ll stick around and watch!” She gave them a salacious wink before continuing on her way with a sway of her hips.

“Wha-! As...as if I’d ever―” Hadvar sputtered. He was rapidly turning as red as his Imperial-issue tunic, which was quite a garish shade of crimson in and of itself.

“Come now Hadvar,” said Ralof, sliding his axes back into his belt before clapping the blushing man on the shoulder. “It’s not like we’ve never―”

Ralof was abruptly cut off by a rather hard shove into a nearby shrub. Sheathing his own sword, Hadvar huffed in indignation, stomping off after Donna while mumbling some particularly colourful oaths under his breath. Chuckling despite himself, Ralof dragged himself out of the bush and followed them down the hillside, brushing stray leaves from his shaggy hair as he went.

 

* * *

 

_First things first,_ thought Mog. _Figure out where in Oblivion you are. Next, get directions back to the Jeralls and third, beat the ever-living shit out of those meddling bosmer brats!_

_...slap-slap-slap-slap-slap…_

Rozak Mog was wholeheartedly convinced that the elven twins were somehow responsible for his recent misfortunes. And that made him hurt somewhere deep down inside. He felt...betrayed? Had Latta and Lor even looked for him? Or had they simply forgotten him, just another passing fancy they had grown weary of? How well had he even known them, really? The ache in his chest was acute, the sharp, jabbing pain in his heart akin to the horrific ministrations he had endur― _No. Do not think it. Do not relive it._  A timid voice from behind him broke his spiraling thoughts.

_...slap-slap-slap-slap-slap…_

“Jesus there, bud! Hold on a sec!”

It was that strange purple woman,

“Fuck dude! Wait up! My legs ain’t nearly as long as yours!”

Chasing after him down the sloping hillside.

_...slap-slap-slap-slap-slap…_

_ Huh. _

“C’mon guy! Would you please just―”

WHUMP.

_ Did she just...crash into my backside? _

Mog peered curiously behind him, barely repressing a snort of amusement at the sight of the woman rolling on the ground, mail shirt ridden up on her thighs, revealing a pair of the oddest smallclothes he had ever seen.  _ They’re so tiny...and so pink? _ She was clutching both hands to her face, moaning loudly.

“You broke my fucking nose! With your ass! Fuuuuuuuuck!”

“Priestess! Are you alright?” The blond man from the wagon had evidently sprinted after them and sank down next to the girl, checking her over with a look of great concern. “Donna?”

Hadvar had followed shortly after, the Stormcloak soldier had all but plowed him over in his haste. “Rozak Mog, Ralof, wha―”

“My fucking nose!” the woman wailed.

“You, orc! Now see here!” The man  _ (Ralof?) _ said, pointing an accusatory finger at Mog. “What have you done to the lady, you beast!?”

“Ralof! How dare you-”

“MY MOTHERFUCKING NOSE!”

Mog rolled his eyes at the outburst.  _ Humans.  _ In his recent encounters with Man, it had become apparent that they were quite the dramatic group, unable to handle the slightest grievances without alerting every available sentient being to their personal discomfort. This female in particular, it seemed, excelled at it. She now had both men cooing over her, one tenderly touching her nose while the other dried her tears with a filthy handkerchief.

“Hold now, priestess...Donna was it?” The woman  _ (priestess?) _ Donna looked to Hadvar, whose now bloodied rag was held to her nose. “If I may… I might be of some assistance?”

Ralof’s eyes darkened at his enemy-turned-tentative-ally. “Really, Hadvar? You dishonour your―”

“Hush, Ralof. Keep your narrow views to yourself least they blind others. Now, mistress Donna,” Hadvar raised a hand, pulling the glove from his fingers with the other. “While I am not the best healer the Legion has to offer, I can―”

Ralof snorted. Loudly.

_ “Ahem. _ I can be of some service to the injured, unlike my pig-headed friend here.” He looked pointedly at Ralof as he spoke. “Now, if you’ll just pull back the...yes, here we go...hold still please, priestess...”

Both Donna and Mog watched in disbelief as a soft, golden glow began to emanate from Hadvar’s fingertips. It spread downwards, pooling into his palm before he brought his hand to Donna’s abused nose. Donna and Mog were overwhelmed by their thoughts; Donna freaking out at the realization that this guy was doing some sort of fucking  _ magic; _ and Mog, quite frankly terrified that the man he had been traveling with all this time possessed the same monstrous abilities as the torturers from his time beneath Fort Neugrad.  

After a few moments, the glow subsided, leaving no trace it had even come to pass.

“Well, priestess Donna?” Hadvar asked, kind grey eyes meeting Donna’s alarmed brown ones. “How does it feel?”

After taking several deep breaths, Donna prodded her nostrils gently, avoiding the side that bore a small silver ring, and winced. “I don’t know what that whole ‘sparkly Bowie hands’ thing was about,” she said nasally, blood still trickling down her lips. “But that buggering bastard over there broke my fucking nose. With his ass.”

Hadvar stared at his ungloved hand and looked crestfallen. Ralof broke out into laughter. Rozak Mog nodded apologetically.

“With. His. Fucking. ASS!” With that, Donna returned the gory handkerchief to her face, eyeing the orc with renewed interest.  _ Lord only knows what he could break with the rest of him! _

Some sort of alliance was formed between the four after that. Whether it was due to their shared harrowing experiences during the destruction of Helgen, or the perilous journey through the dark caverns beneath, it was hard to say. Perhaps it was just the sheer audacity of the entire situation itself. No matter how it had come to be, as the ragtag group made their way down the rolling hillside and into the thickening woods of the Falkreath forests, one thing was clear, Donna was almost completely certain that she was absolutely, definitely no longer in her own world.

* * *

 

Humans had proven to be the most ridiculous of creatures and, as far as Mog was concerned, nothing good could possibly ever come from their company. As little as he could recall of the races of Man, it was abundantly clear that even within their own stock, humans could and would find any reason at all to fight amongst themselves.  _ Stormcloaks and Imperials, bah! _ Judging by the attitudes of the two men he begrudgingly now traveled with, irreconcilable differences could be found even between clansmen of the same stronghold...village...whatever they called their steadings.  _ Any excuse to spill blood, _ he scowled. And then there was that woman. 

Said woman, who had all but run him over, knocked herself on her own backside and then cried foul! Claimed  _ he  _ broke her nose! Right, as if he’d intentionally let her anywhere near himself, ass or otherwise. Seeing her snivelling in the dirt, drawing sympathy from the pair of mismatched soldiers had given him pause, but only just. Then to see Hadvar’s feeble attempt at spellcraft fail to do anything to the girl’s bloodied nose had aroused his curiosity, but only a  _ little  _ bit! He had no time for injured waifs and the magical fumblings of an Imperial scribe! He’d be better off back home in the Jeralls, just...just as soon as he figured out where he was and get some directions.

Somehow or other, Rozak Mog had found himself a reluctant member of the traveling pack of humans. Both men had insisted that they join forces and make way for Riverwood. 

“Closest town from here, Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there,” said Hadvar.

“Aye, my sister Gerdur runs the mill,” Ralof had likewise insisted. “It’s just up the road and down the river. She’s sure to help you out, priestess Donna.”

“And you, Rozak Mog. Can’t have us all forced upon Gerdur’s good  _ Nord  _ hospitality.” Hadvar’s emphasis had Ralof rounding on him in a second.

“Just what do you mean by  _ that, _ Empire-lover?”

“You well know, Stormcloak hospitality is  _ singular  _ in its nature.”

“Would you two puh-lease shut up?” Donna interjected, forcing her way between the quarreling men. “I’ve got enough of a headache from having my goddamned  _ nosebone  _ shoved into my skull, eh? So cut the shit!”

The comical  _ slap-slap-slapping _ of her too-large boots as she pushed past them stood in stark contrast to her authoritative tone, but Mog was relieved that no further arguments were made. At least, for the moment.

* * *

 

The sun had long ago reached its zenith by they time both groups had emerged from the caves beneath the destroyed keep, and it had only continued its downwards journey towards the horizon in the time that had passed. There was no insistence by any of them to push on to Riverwood through the night, they were all far too weary from the days events to even consider it. As luck would have it, Hadvar claimed knowledge of a suitable spot to rest for the night, an old hunter’s camp a few miles upstream of their destination.

“Should be around here somewhere… Ah, here it is!” Hadvar stood waist-deep in brambles and brush, waving them on eagerly. “Looks like ol’Veidr isn’t here, but he won’t take mind to us using his camp.”

“Veidr,” said Ralof thoughtfully. “Haven’t seen hide nor tail of the old bastard since Hroki left for―”

Mog was quick to tune them out, too busy picking his way through the bushes and spiny branches. 

Making their way through the undergrowth and around a rocky bend, the exhausted group was greeted by a welcoming sight. Tucked into a natural alcove along the pebbly shores where (what Ralof had called) Lake Ilinalta fed into (what Hadvar had argued was  _ technically) _ the White River, was a well-established, albeit currently empty, campsite. Although there was no tent, deep holes and several piles of stone sketched out its usual post. To the side, a weather-beaten frame stood proud, thick iron nails hammered along its length for the drying of fish and other small game. A ring of blackened hearthstones designated the fire pit, several charred logs still lay in wait for rekindling. Whomever this Veidr was, he certainly had situated himself rather nicely on the riverside; It was secluded, well-situated, and over all, blessedly dragon-free.

Donna wrinkled her nose at the fishy smell of the river, but Hadvar and Ralof’s enthusiasm was contagious. She hadn’t been camping since she was eleven (the previous night with Lokir notwithstanding) and the prospect of sleeping under the stars, unprotected from dragons and what have you, was not exactly an appealing one. She kicked at a few of the pebbles as she crossed over to further inspect the campsite. She was just examining a rather flat, black stone that appeared to have some sort of fossilized gastropod in it, when there was a very loud, very sudden WHOOP.

“RALOF YOU DAMN BASTARD!” A rather wet, angry Hadvar shouted from the river, a stringy bit of weed hanging off his shoulder plate. “I SHOULD’VE KIL―” Donna held back a laugh as she watched Ralof throw himself into the water, only belatedly realizing that the man had stripped himself down to nothing  _ (Oh my!) _ before doing so. They tussled like a pair of grizzly cubs in the water, Hadvar trying to dunk his assailant while simultaneously pulling off his own gear. His tunic landed on the shore with a wet  _ splat, _ followed quickly by his leather kilt  _ splat-whap _ and one boot― _ whap! _ ―make that two.

Face turning an unattractive shade of tomato red, Donna busied herself by trying to get a fire going. It had been years― _ Over ten! How did I get so old? _ ―since she had done anything of the sort, but she hoped her third-hand boy scout training would prove useful. She spied a pile of driftwood tucked in behind the tent holes, but before she could even make it three steps, she was struck dumb by the sight of an entirely too nude, too unabashedly unashamed of being nude, Rozak Mog as he followed after the splashing men into the river.  _ Sweet Batman Baby Jesus!  _ Donna could scarcely breath as she watched entirely more green orc ass than she’d ever thought she’d see saunter boldly into the water.  _ Don’t turn around don’t turn around don’t turn around ¡ _ _ DIOS MÍO! _

Tripping over her own feet, Donna crashed into the stack of driftwood like the complete and utter numpty that she was.  _ Amazing. _

Well, at least now she could see  _ why  _ he was so unabashedly unashamed...

* * *

 

“RALOF YOU DAMN BASTARD!”

“I SHOULD’VE KIL―”

_ Would nothing cease their foolish squabbling? _ Sighing, Mog turned to see what outrageous slight one man had done to the other this time.

Hadvar held Ralof in a rather admirable attempt at a headlock, while Ralof was sputtering up mouthfuls of water after being thoroughly dunked for his impudence. If Mog rolled his eyes any more, he feared they would simply roll right out of his head. The water looked inviting enough, despite their splashing and fighting, and so Mog stripped himself down and joined them in the river. He made sure to keep a good distance between himself and the pair of Nords, having zero intention of getting involved in what looked to have devolved into some sort of boot-hurling competition.  _ Nords. _

There was a crashing noise from the shore, followed by the colourful curses he’d come to associate with the priestess.  _ Donna. _ He had barely made it past his thighs, slowly trying to acclimate himself to the frigid waters. Looking over his shoulder, he noted with much surprise, that the unfortunate woman had managed to knock over a pile of stacked logs and was failing miserably to detangle herself. She flushed a feverish crimson when she noticed his eyes on her, redoubling her efforts to free her legs. The orc blinked stupidly at her reaction,  _ Had she...did she just look at my backside!? _

* * *

 

While the menfolk splashed about like baby otters, Donna was hard at work. She had pulled over some logs, found some smaller twigs and branches, and had replicated as best she could the teachings of Ye Olde Boy Scout Handbook. She’d even shaved down some of the branches with her dagger to make kindling to stuff in the centre of the teepee structure of logs.  _ Now all I need is a match or my lighter… Fuck. _ Sighing dramatically, Donna grabbed a couple more branches and tried her best to replicate the hand-drill method Dougie had learnt for a merit badge.  _ Guess I’ll be doing this the hard way… _ She side-eyed the river, but none of her able-bodied ― _ Mmm and what bodies! (Oh hush, libido! Not now!) _ ― seemed like they were coming back to shore anytime soon. She set to work, trying to quash all sexy thoughts with the first song that came to mind:

_ There once was a frenchman Yvon was his name _ __   
_     Exploring new worlds he dreamed was his fame _ __   
_     But reading a map was not his forte _ _   
_ __     So poor Yvon was soon cast away!

A thin plume of smoke appeared, but quickly dissipated into the breeze. Frowning at the mutinous bit of wood, Donna continued:

_      Yvon of the Yukon _ __   
_     Sailing the stormy seas! _ __   
_     Yvon of the Yukon _ _   
_ __     No one could hear his pleas!

_      He soon found himself in a _ ―

“Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ!” Donna practically jumped out of her skin as a mostly naked Ralof joined her at the fire pit. Behind him, she could see an equally almost naked Hadvar laying out his sopping clothes on the game rack in a valiant effort to dry them. Clearly they were continuing to resolve their differences, as Hadvar was clad in Ralof’s dry tunic, while the apparently charitable Ralof was making due with just trousers.

“Why did you stop?” Ralof asked, “I’ve never heard such a strange song before! Go on,” he motioned at her encouragingly. 

Rolling her eyes at the mischievous grin plastered on his face, she went on:

_      He soon found himself in a bit of a pickle _ __   
_     The frigid north seas proved more than fickle _ __   
_     Yvon's navigation would soon cost a price _ _   
_ __     He was knocked overboard and turned into ice!

_      Yvon of the Yukon _ __   
_     Hapless Volunteer! _ __   
_     Yvon of the Yukon _ _   
_ __     Frozen for hundreds of years!

“What in the gods’ names are you singing?” Hadvar dropped himself unceremoniously next to Ralof, shaking droplets of water from his hair. One landed perfectly, snuffing out Donna’s meager attempt once more. 

“Hush, Hadvar!” Ralof gave him a playful shove.

_ 300 years passed and with some irony _ __   
_     Yvon was thawed up by Mutt's need to pee _ __   
_     Yvon claimed the land for his country's glory _ _   
_ __     And that's the start of Yvon's story!

_      Yvon of the Yukon _ __   
_     Frozen by icy seas! _ __   
_     Yvon of the Yukon _ _   
_ __     Defrosted for you and for me!

She ended the song with a flourish, grousing as she accidentally snapped her drill-stick. She threw it irritably at her intricately set up logs, which all came crashing down in a heap. 

Hadvar gave her a sympathetic look, patting her shoulder lightly with a damp hand. Ralof, meanwhile, snapped his fingers next to the fallen logs, causing them to instantly burst into a roaring flame. His shit-eating grin was met by a condescending glare from Hadvar and a sudden shriek from Donna, who had somehow displaced herself from the hearth and was now cowering several feet away, practically sitting in the river.

“Wh-what th-th-the f-fuck?” Her voice was barely audible, all of the oxygen having left her lungs in her hasty retreat. “H-h-how…” Then Donna looked up and became all-too aware that she was pretty much sitting on Rozak Mog’s feet...and got a rather good eyeful of his (thankfully?) now clothed crotch. “GAH!”

“What have you done to her?” Mog growled at the seated men.

“Just a bit of the clever craft,” scoffed Ralof. “Not like she’s never see―”

“Oh! So  _ that’s _ fine, but if I want to heal the poor girl I’m ‘an affront to my ancestors’, hmm?”

“No skeever-brains, you’re an affront to your ancestors because you bent over for the Thal―”

“ENOUGH!” roared Mog, “You!” He pointed at Ralof. “Apologize. And you!” His thick, green finger moved to Hadvar. “Help me hunt.” With that, he stepped around a still stunned Donna, leaving her sitting with a wet ass, a sore nose, and nothing but panic and disbelief in her mind.

_ Magic. Motherfucking magic. _

* * *

 

Dinner was, thankfully, not some poor little bunny like Donna’s brain had previously imagined, but several fat silver perch, roasted on the ends of sharpened branches Mog had deftly pointed and stuck fast in the ground. The scales blackened and cracked in the heat, but still needed to be cut away from the meat beneath. Donna was sure she’d already ingested several, as well as more bones than she would care to think about, but it was the first real food she’d eaten since arriving at, well,  _ wherever  _ it was that she was, and damn did it taste good.

After her fire-magic-freakout, she had embraced her already wet bottom and taken a rather bracing dip in the river...at least, she had tromped out as far as she dared in her pink Hello Kitty panties and ratty old t-shirt, trying desperately not to think about all the creepy fishy monsters lurking beneath the water  _ (please oh please don’t let river sharks be a thing here!) _ and given her body a vigorous once over before hauling ass back to the sanctity of her freshly rinsed (and woefully wet) housecoat and the warm fire. Ralof had, as far as she could tell, keep his eyes respectfully to himself during her icy river-bath, but she still had heard him laughing at her shrieking when the frigid waters splashed against her skin or she’d thought a fish had brushed against her leg.

Now all present and accounted for, not to mention smelling far less rank, the four unlikely companions sat around the crackling fire. Clothes now somewhat cleaner and mostly dry, Ralof and Hadvar had redressed themselves in their respective gear, save for Ralof’s blue mantle which was now unfolded and wrapped tightly around Donna as she shivered in the chilly night air. (“How are you not cold?” she’d asked them. “Nords.” they’d replied, whatever that meant.)

Night had fallen quickly and despite the earlier levity, the three men had agreed that a watch should be set for the night. Donna was mildly affronted that she wasn’t included in the rotation, but as Ralof had helpfully pointed out, she was completely useless in a fight. This didn’t stop her from silently protesting with a few choice hand gestures, but in the shadows of the fire’s glow, it would have been hard to make them out.

Donna awoke rather unhappily around what she imagined was sometime near midnight, unsure of what dreams she’d had other than the lingering fear that followed. She was disoriented at first, jolting as a hand tried to reassuringly clasp her shoulder. Whirling, she came face-to-face with the orc-man.  _ Mog...what is he―? _

“Alright, little priestess?” His voice was deep, spoken in hushed tones so as not to wake their sleeping companions. Her stomach did an excited flip. _ Of all the times to have a voice kink. Blargh. _

“I-I’m fine,” she lied, whispering back at him. “You on watch now?”

He grunted in affirmation.

“Well...I’m just gonna go...find the little girl’s room?” She gestured...somewhere off into the dark. Seeing his confusion, she tried again. “Er, I gotta go...pee?”

He gave her a nod, noting the flush creeping across her cheeks even in the dark. “Stay close.”

Donna scampered as quietly as she could around the edge of the rocks, intent on finding the nearest tree. Once she’d relieved herself, she was met with another pressing issue.  _ Oh no, _ thought Donna.  _ Which way is camp? _

* * *

 

The remainder of the evening had passed in much the same as the hours proceeding it. It was quiet now, and Rozak Mog was thankful for the peace. He wasn’t used to being around people; first when he lived on the mountains, visited only by Latta and Lor, and later; when he had been held in the dungeons, visited only by...by…  _ Do not think it. Do not make it real. Do not do not do not… _

_ Focus. They rest, and you keep watch. Focus, focus.  _ Curled up next to the fire, Ralof and Hadvar sprawled like whelps in a litter. Despite making a point to distance themselves when they had laid down, sometime after the two men had crept closer and closer until they all but lay atop each other.  _ It’ll be a treat for Hadvar to detangle himself when he takes watch next, here’s hoping he does so without waking up Ralof… _ Speaking of waking, where  _ was  _ the other one?

Mog scowled, brows crossing in a manner that had become all too familiar as of late. He had done his best not to rush the woman, but it had been nearly a quarter hour and she had yet to return from the trees.  _ It has been too long, what is taking her?  _ He slowly pulled himself to his feet, and, stepping lightly so as not to disturb the slumbering soldiers, made his way down the shore, around the bend and into the brush. He kept one cautious hand hovering near the hilt of his sword, the other reaching out to prevent crashing into any unseen obstacles. Without the flickering firelight, it took his eyes a moment to grow accustomed to the glow of the moons above.  _ Now, where have you gotten to, little priestess? _

He picked up her trail with relative ease, his ears and nose providing information that his eyes could not. Despite her pathetic attempt to bathe earlier in the icy river, he could still make out the  _ smoke-and-blood _ from the days events. Beneath it, another scent that reminded him painfully of the vials of sweet syrups that his friends would carry―though they never let him try it, insisting the effects wouldn’t be near as nice as the smell; burnt, sugary sweet. 

“Priestess?” he called quietly into the night, straining to pick up further signs of the woman’s passing.

The reply was meek and shaking. “R-Ralof?”

He pointpointed her position, ducking under a stout branch as he stalked towards her. “No. Mog.” Her responding sigh, whether it was of relief or fright, he couldn’t say. “You hurt?”

Donna nodded, before realizing it was highly unlikely he could see her in the darkness. “Yes.”

Mog grunted, “Need help?”

“Please,” she could make out his outline now, and reached out to him. “I tripped and-” she hissed when he pulled her to her feet. “I tripped and hit my head on a fucking branch. Damn nose is bleeding again.”

How had he missed it? At her mention, the coppery scent of blood invaded his nostrils.

“Uh, Mog? Bud?”

Clearing his thoughts, he gave his head a quick shake. “Priestess?”  _ Donna. _

“You’re kinda standing on my foot.”

“Oh,” he stumbled back a step, glad his own flushed face couldn’t be seen in the dark.

“Thanks,” Mog could almost hear her smiling. “You know the way back, eh?”

“Uh, ‘course.”

“Well then, lead on my dude.” Mog’s heart nearly jumped out of his mouth when he felt something fumbling near his hand. “Sorry! I don’t know wha―” He curled his own hand over the woman’s  _ (Donna’s) _ , marveling at how small and soft they were, albeit a bit clammy. “Er, uh… Thanks? Keeps me from getting lost again, eh?” Donna squeezed his hand back meekly.

“You get lost like a summer rabbit in winter snow…”  _ What in Oblivion was he saying? _

Donna stopped dead in her tracks. “Excuse me,” she made to pull back her hand. “The  _ fuck  _ is that supposed to mea―Oh! Pfft,  _ hair  _ joke, har-dee-har-har.”

They had stopped now, standing in a small clearing surrounded by a trio of large stones. Masser shone brightly overhead, illuminating them both with its faint red glow. 

“So you  _ do  _ have a sense of humour, after all.” Donna quirked a grin at him, which he tried his best to match. He couldn’t help but notice her eyes dart to his tusks, visibly wincing as she did. Mog dropped her hand. 

“Close now,” he gestured beyond one of the large stones. “Camp’s just past here.” He made his way to the edge of the clearing, feet skillfully stepping over the thick roots that criss-crossed the smooth stone surface of the ground. Donna, who of course was nowhere near as dexterous, promptly crashed over the nearest root, falling into one of the oblong stones.

There was a bright flash overhead, as a beam of blue light shot up into the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you so very much to all you lovely readers for sticking around thus far! And to you newcomers, welcome! (Parking can be validated at the front desk and Wednesdays we wear pink.) Now that we’ve finally gotten this rag-tag group of dorks through the Helgen-Alduin-Doomsday kerfuffle, things should get more interesting. 
> 
> “Yvon of the Yukon” © Studio B Productions and Corus Entertainment
> 
> Here, have some translations instead:  
> ¡Mierda! = Shit! (Spanish)  
> ¡Dios mío! = My God! (Spanish)  
> Tabernac! = like Fuck!, but much, much worse. (French-Canadian)
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.  
> 


	10. In which some fancy rocks do a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos!  
> You guys make my day, and I'm eternally grateful for your kindness and support!

 

Beneath the light of two moons, within an ancient grove, stood three proud stones imbued with the magics of the gods. These relics held powers given from the stars themselves; holes scattered throughout the skies marking the departure of souls to Aetherius. Many a pilgrimage across the Tamriel had been taken to these holy monuments, erected in ages long past, said to bless those who touch them with otherworldly abilities. Of the thirteen stones scattered throughout the province of Skyrim, three stood within this circle; the Warrior, the Thief and the Mage. Each stone held correspondence with a constellation above, denoting the birthsigns of those born under their influence.

Either by divine intervention, or simply mere chance, it came to pass that two individuals born worlds apart now stood within the blessed stone circle. Unbeknownst to both, they shared a rather singular peculiarity; through some cosmic misalignment, they shared the same birthsign. Born in the summer months, what one would call August and the other Last Seed, they had been born not of the Warrior (whose presence stood dominant during this time), but the Serpent. This was a rather fickle sign, for it held no particular charter through the heavens, nor did it possess the typical formation of its celestial siblings, for the Serpent was made of Unstars. As such, those born beneath held the unique distinction of being both the most blessed and the most cursed of the Divines.

And so, by the aberrant nature of their birthsigns, it should come to little wonder that when this particular pair stood within the ancient grouping of Aedric monoliths, something curious should come to pass.

 

* * *

 

**_There was a bright flash overhead, as a beam of blue light shot up into the night sky..._ **

Mog looked at the ungraceful sprawl of Donna at the foot of the shining stone with mild bemusement. The brilliant blue light bespoke something magical in origin, something that left an unpleasant niggling sensation at the back of his mind. Of course, he would never voice such displeasure, especially not to a strange girl he had known barely a full day. Instead, he settled back into his default character of short-spoken gruffness.

“What did you do?”

Looking up sheepishly at the towering form of the orc, Donna settled back on her heels. Taking in the unnatural glowing of the stone, she was drawn to the figure now outlined by the impossible,  _ magical  _ light. Reaching out a tentative hand, she started to trace the shape on its face, a helmed man in armor, holding a shield and a mighty axe.

“Priestess…”  _ Donna.  _ Mog didn’t even register it as he reached out to her hand, somehow drawn,  _ pulled  _ to meet her fingers tracing the stone. The moment he felt the smooth rock beneath his fingertips, the moment their hands met on the glowing outline, it was as if something, someone, somewhere, struck them with a bolt of lightning. There was no sound, no sensation, save for the rush of air as they were both thrown through the clearing, landing heavily on opposite sides.  Of the circle of Guardian Stones, there were now only two remaining. The third stone, the Warrior Stone, was no more. 

If anyone had been around to see, they would have been met with the sight of a large, diamond-scaled serpent winding its way through the smoldering pile of rubble and out into the night.

 

* * *

 

_ "...Mog...Mog...Mog…" _

“Mog, really! You’ll never be able to shoot this bow, let alone hunt with it! By Y’ffre, you really are hopeless, aren’t you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Moggo! Lor’s just pissy ‘cause they lost their good knife at that pub in Bruma…”

“Shove it Latta! Now Mog, look at this, see how taunt the bowstring is? You pull that now, you’ll see what I mean…”

_ "...Mog...Mog...Mog…” _

“See these cards? This is how I won the trick, see this seven, and the Jarlessa of roses?”

“Lies! Don’t listen Mog, Latta’s a filthy cheat!”

“Am not! I saw you slide that two of shields up your sleeve!”

_ "...Mog...Mog...Mog…” _

“Lor, you utter ass! See what happens when you goof off like that!”

“C’mon Latta, I was just trying to teach Mog a two-step!”

“And you completely smashed my bag in the process!”

“Oh.”

“Ya, oh! Vulpin’s gonna have our ears for this!”

 _ "...Mog...MOG... _ _MOG!”_  

Three very concerned human faces peered down at him, lit by a feebly flickering ball of light in the hands of one. Mog scowled back at them, the palm of his left hand burning and his eyes trying to adjust to the suddenness of the light.

“Rozak Mog! Are you alright friend?” Hadvar knelt at his side, magelight dancing in his hand. “You gave us quite a scare!”

“Hush Hadvar, who knows who or what prowls these woods. Best get him back to camp.” Ralof helped haul the larger orc-man to his feet. Mog swayed unsteadily, until the pair of soldiers each took an arm and draped him over their shoulders. “Come along, priestess Donna! You know, if she hadn’t alerted us, we wouldn’t have found you!”

“Gods, that woman can shriek!”

“Hey! I’m right here assholes!”

Grumbling, Rozak Mog allowed himself to be led back through the undergrowth to camp. Whatever had happened back in the clearing, he couldn’t help but feel that _somehow_ it was the woman’s fault.

* * *

 

Now settled back around the campfire, Hadvar announced that he would be taking the next watch and encouraged the others to try to get some sleep. After a brief argument with Ralof, and some growling from Mog, they all curled up in their respective spots around the fire and tried to get some shut eye in before sunrise.

Donna couldn’t sleep.

She was still shaken by what had happened in the stone circle.  _ Half expected to get tossed back into the Scottish 1700s, _ she mused.  _ Not that things could get much weirder around here.  _ Sighing, she clutched her right hand to her chest. Whatever had happened, her hand hurt like a bitch.  _ Did we really get struck by lightning? There wasn’t a storm or anything… _ It was the only thing that made any lick of sense to her, but that being said, she was in another world where dragons and magic and orcs were a thing, so who knows?  _ Dios, what if I’m cursed? _

Peeking out from under her lashes, Donna eyed the orc.  _ Mog. Not ‘orc’. Rozak Mog. _ It appeared he also had gotten injured in the blast, if the way he cradled his own hand was any indication.  _ Hopefully it’s not his sword hand, I don’t know how much farther we have to travel to get to this Riverwood place, but if that dragon is still around… _ She shivered at the thought and drew Ralof’s mantle tighter around her shoulders, wincing as her palm touched the woolen fabric.  _ Owie. Why is this happening to me? What did I ever do? _ A sudden thought jarred her from her internal bitching.  _ What day is it? _

“Psst. Hadvar”

“Priestess?” he whispered back, crawling a bit closer to her.

“What day is it?”

“Let me think,” Hadvar did some mental gymnastics while Donna waited on bated breath. “Should be the seventeenth, no, eighteenth of Last Seed I reckon. Why?”

“What is Last Seed?”

“A, uh, month?” He looked at her with concern. “Just how hard did you hit your head?”

“M’fine. Night Hadvar.” She rolled over to face away from the flames, hoping her butt was safely covered by her housecoat and borrowed ‘blankie’.  _ What day was it when I left? August something? Well fuck, I think I missed my birthday. No wonder mom kept trying to call me the other day… _

Thankfully, Donna somehow managed to fall back to sleep. The heat of the campfire at her back helped stave off the chilled night air almost enough to be considered pleasant. Across the fire, Mog had no such luck. His mind wasn’t racing, but blindly wandering through a muddled mess of memories that he couldn’t quite untangle from what he knew, and what he didn’t. 

 

* * *

 

_ “What are the Stormcloak’s plans?” _

_ “Wha _ ― _ who?” _

_ “Don’t play coy with me, orc! Now I’ll ask again, what are Ulfric Stormcloak's plans?” _

_ “I d-don’t know any Ulfric!” _

_ “Seems like our dear guest needs some coaxing…” _

_ “Indeed! How rude we’ve been, such horrid hosts! I’m so sorry, we’ve been most unwelcoming!” _

_  “Simply unforgivable! Now, how about we show our lovely friend here some proper hospitality!” _

 

* * *

 

“Remember,” cautioned Ralof, “This isn't Stormcloak territory. If we're ahead of the news from Helgen, we should be fine as long as we don't do anything stupid.”

“As much as I am loathe to agree with Ralof, he is right,” Hadvar said with a sigh. “Listen, as far as I'm concerned, you've both already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, all right?

All of this, of course, went right over Donna’s head. Her thoughts had been elsewhere, specifically on figuring out when and how she could get her hands on a pack of smokes. It had been way, way too long since she last had a dart, and boy was she jonesing for a nicotine fix. Now that their impending doom had been postponed, all her brain could do was fantasize about a pack of Belmonts, hell, she’d even take menthols or those shitty cloves she’d smoked in high school. Oh if only she hadn’t left her pack sitting on the coffee table before...well whatever had happened, happened.

Bringing up the rear of their bedraggled parade as they made their way along the riverside path, Mog was more than making up for Donna’s cognitive truancy. _Stormcloaks? Imperials?_ _Pardons? Did that mean they might take him back to the...the block!? Oh no…_ What if they took him back to Neugrad? He was thankful he’d kept to the back of the group, it prevented the humans from seeing his distress. He needed to avoid seeming weak, though why, he couldn’t say. Something in his gut told him to avoid seeming vulnerable. _Stay strong and they won’t get you._ Whoever _they_ were…

It was truly a pity that neither girl nor orc could spare a moment to take in the view that lined the rambling dirt road. Tall pines soared above them, trunks interspersed with clusters of swordfern, bristly shrubs and patches of wild grasses. Scattered throughout, patches of blue, purple and red mountain flowers grew, bright faces turned upwards to soak in the rising sun. Here and there, thistles swayed as a gentle breeze played among their violet crowns. Mossy rocks and boulders rested peacefully along the roadside, some holding evidence of a once-greater purpose; formerly of the stone walls that once lined the highways of eras gone by.

The crowning jewel was the line of mountains that rose up beyond the river to the north. White-capped peaks touched the clouds overhead, some so tall they seemed to disappear into the sky itself. Littered along the rocky ridge, small ruins of ancient constructs could be seen, stark black shapes in contrast to the snowy peaks. To the south, another range wound its way along the horizon, though shorter overall, it matched its opposing cousin. From the position below, it was easy to imagine being held between a pair of mighty jaws, that of a long-dormant titan of old; the winds winding through the spruces and firs like a wheezing breath of a great slumbering giant.

“See that ruin up there?” Mog and Donna were shaken from their thoughts, eyes following Hadvar’s extended finger to the high mountains across the river. “Bleak Falls Barrow. When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares.”

“Aye,” said Ralof. “I never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place. I guess you get used to it.”

“That why you left to join the army?” inquired Donna. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to get away from  _ that, _ looks creepy as hell.”

“More than just creepy, I’m afraid. Dark things lurk in those ancient Barrows. Things better left alone.”

“Remember Hilde used to tell us those stories of Draugr creeping down the mountain? Said they’d climb through your window at night, if you were naughty. Steal you away to their tombs and make you one of ‘em, that sort of thing.”

Donna could barely contain the shiver that crept up her spine. Whatever a ‘drawger’ was, it didn’t sound all that pleasant. Mog merely looked curiously back up at the mountain, eyeing the barrow with thinly veiled interest.

“I admit, even though I’ve grown, I still don’t much like the look of it.”

“One of the few things we still agree on then, Hadvar.” Ralof had quickened his pace, clearly anxious to put some distance between himself and his childhood horror.

 

* * *

 

“So… I don’t suppose any of you fine gentlemen have any smokes on you, eh?” Though she knew deep down it was a fruitless endeavor, Donna nevertheless persisted.

“Smokes, priestess?” Hadvar arched a brown brow at her. 

Before he could respond further, a rather alarmed Ralof began fervently examining himself and the others. “Is there smoke?” He patted himself down, almost comically, before settling a glare in Hadvar’s direction. “What foul magics have you been up to now, you Imperial bastard? Planning to kill me, huh?”

Both Donna and Mog shared an exasperated groan.  _ This shit again. _

“Ralof, really!” Donna was beyond fed up with their bickering, which seemed to set off at the drop of a hat. “You cast fire just last night! What’s the fucking difference?”

“Gods, Ralof! Listen to Donna, do you even hear half the mammoth-shit that comes out of your mouth?”

_ Mammoth...shit? _ “Wait, what’s this about mammoths?” Donna had stopped in her tracks.

Mog came to a stop just beside her, trying to disguise his own curiosity with his usual stone-faced mask of indifference. 

“Wait, what?” Hadvar wasn’t sure where or why the conversation had turned from his apparent murderous desires to the large, woolly beasts. “What about mammoths?”

“Aren’t they, well, extinct?” 

If her expression hadn’t been so serious, Hadvar would have thought her joking. “Mammoths? Extinct?”

“What’s an ‘extinct’?” asked Ralof dumbly. “Mammoths are those big, hairy fellows you see out on the steppes.”

Hadvar, rolled his eyes at Ralof’s ignorance, “Of course they are still alive, priestess Donna. You head out to the plains just northwest of here and you’ll see plenty of them.”

All Donna could do was stand there, looking slightly ill.  _ First orcs, then dragons and now mammoths? _

“Just where the hell am I?”

All three of her companions now looked at her with combined concern and mild suspicion.

“Why, Skyrim, of course?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” Donna snipped back. She could feel herself ramping up for a a complete panic attack, the claws were coming out and her nicotine-deprived body could barely contain the excess of  _ snark  _ coursing through her veins. “Is this some kind of fucking joke? Am I dead? I died, didn’t I? And this is my hell. Fuck!”

“Er, Donna?”

“Shove it, Hadvar!” Both arms came up, clutching desperately around her head as she sank to her knees and began rocking slightly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

Ralof and Hadvar looked incredulously at each other, twin expressions practically screaming ‘the hell do we do now?’ They watched her, a pair of useless men confronted with something neither had ever seen before; a grown-ass woman in a fuzzy purple bathrobe having a complete meltdown at the side of the road.

 

* * *

 

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!”

“What? What is it now, mother?”

“It was as big as a mountain and as black as night. It flew right over the Barrow!”

 "Dragons, now, is it? You keep on like this and everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to your fantasies."

"You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all and then you'll believe me!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Wow, Donna is having a mammoth panic attack! Get it? Mammoth? I'll just see myself out...
> 
> The card game Latta and Lor are trying to teach Mog is called Treikort, an old Icelandic card game that uses 27 cards instead of 52, and is designed to be played with three people.
> 
> I'm trying to write Latta and Lor as non-binary characters, please point out any instances where I slip up. I really want to nail this guys! I feel that it is important to have different genders and sexualities represented in my stories, after all, that's what real life is like! Much love to my fellow LGBTQ+ peeps!
> 
> PRO TIP: Smokers are jokers! Instead of wasting time and money on slowly killing yourself with cancer sticks, just re-buy Skyrim for whatever platform you don't yet own and play it again! :D  
> (but seriously kiddos, don't smoke. Donna is just an idiot)
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.  
> 


	11. In which they finally arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all so much I updated before I left for work.  
> Enjoy <3

**\- ACT I: PART II: BEFORE THE STORM -**

 

Hadvar sighed with relief when they finally came to the outskirts of Riverwood. “Things look quiet enough here.”

Ralof nodded in agreement. “Looks like nobody here knows what happened yet. Come on, Gerdur's probably working in her lumber mill.”

“Gerdur,” scoffed Hadvar. “My uncle Alvor is close enough, his smithy’s just beyond the gate.”

An irritated grumbling came from the woman slung between them, her nails digging sharply into their shoulders. “Not this shit again! Guys, c’mon, eh? You’re both pretty. Just kiss already.”

Behind the trio came an amused snort, which Mog quickly tried to (unsuccessfully) cover with a cough.

“If we run into any Imperials,” said Ralof. “Just let me do the talking, alright?”

“And by ‘talking’, you mean killing, aye Ralof?” Hadvar abruptly brought them all to a halt. “No, I think not. If we run into any  _ Imperials,” _ he emphasized the word venomously. “I shall be doing the talking. That is, if we can even manage to get that far before they slit your traitorous throat.”

“Fine! But if we come across any true sons of Skyrim, you’ll keep your Empire-loving mouth shut.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

“Ralof, you already said that.” Donna helpfully pointed out.

“You are impossible, woman!” Ralof dropped her arm, leaving her hanging lop-sided off the shoulder of a fuming Hadvar.

“W-wait!” Hadvar unhooked Donna’s arm from his shoulder, leaving her staggering on her post-panic-attack legs. “Ralof! We cannot simply walk into Riverwood, together! There’s a bloody war going on! We must keep up appearances!”

Before Ralof could respond, Mog, who was now awkwardly supporting a swaying Donna, interjected. “Hadvar’s right. Need a plan.”

“Ugh…” said Ralof, glaring hatefully at the orc.

“What do you have in mind, friend?” Hadvar inquired, eyeing Mog appraisingly. 

Mog, unused to such attentive scrutiny, racked his brain for a suitable response. “We...uh, well...we split…up?”

“...”

Both men stood speechless at the simplistic plan, clearly annoyed that neither had suggested it first.

“Guys, he’s right.” Donna tensed her leg muscles to keep the vertigo at bay. “So long as you two aren’t seen together, there should be no problems, right?”

“I suppose…”

“Yes…”

“Well then,” Donna gently released her arm from Mog’s grasp― _ Mmm strong hands _ ―and tried to look more confident than she felt. “Ralof, if they offer still stands, I’d love to meet you sister.”

“Er, ‘course! Gerdur’d love to meet you.”

“Excellent. Hadvar? You okay with the big guy?” she jerked her thumb at Mog.

“Of course, priestess Donna. He’s more than welcome at my kin’s hearth.”

“Okay with you, bud?” Donna peered up at the orc.

“Uh, well…” Mog averted his gaze from the soft brown eyes glancing up through her thick lashes. “Yes?”

“Awesome possum!” She nodded affirmatively, instantly regretting the sudden jarring movement to her still not-quite-right head. “Well then, let’s get this moose on the caboose and hit the spruce!”

The three men shared a baffled look at her increasingly bizarre turns of phrase.

Hadvar had a sudden, awful thought.  _ Was Donna a priestess of Sheoggorath? _

 

* * *

 

_ “You keep on like this and everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to your fantasies." _

_ "You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all and then you'll believe me!" _

Rozak Mog watched the exchange between the two humans, a young man and what appeared to be his dam, with silent interest. So these Riverwood folk had seen the dragon after all? Though by the looks of it, none seemed all too concerned, save this shrill old woman. Malacath, he hoped the beast would keep away, shuddering at the thought of the unsuspecting town being ravaged by the monster’s flames.

“Just over here, friend,” Hadvar nudged his arm. “See the forge? That’s my uncle’s place. Come on, there's my uncle.” Hadvar sprinted up to the indicated wooden home with a large covered porch, most of which was taken up with the furnishings and tools of a blacksmith. Grinning broadly, he greeted a tall, barrel-chested man in a thick hide apron. The man sported long, sooty blond hair and a matching, equally sooty beard. “Uncle Alvor! Hello!”

Mog pulled his gaze from the quibbling man and his mother, following Hadvar’s brunet head as it made its way up a set of sturdy wooden steps to the blacksmith’s shop.

Alvor nearly dropped his hammer when he heard the greeting. “Hadvar? Wha- What are you doing here? Are you on leave from…” He fully took in the sorry state of his nephew. “Shor's bones, what happened to you, boy? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Shh, uncle. Keep your voice down.” Hadvar patted his uncle’s shoulder reassuringly. “I'm fine, but we should go inside to talk…”

“What's going on?” Alvor’s eyes landed on the orc now standing awkwardly to the side of his nephew. “And who's this?” 

Mog didn’t much like the protective stance Alvor had taken with the comment, nor the tightening of grip on his hammer.

“He's a friend, uncle. Saved my life in fact.” Hadvar relieved Alvor of his hammer, setting it down on the closest surface, a well-used anvil. “Come on, I'll explain everything, but we need to go inside.”

Alvor sighed, rubbing his eyes with a blacked hand, leaving behind smudges of soot and grime that mingled with the sweat on his skin. “Okay, okay. Come inside, then. Sigrid will get you something to eat and you can tell me all about it.” He pulled off his apron and hung it on a sturdy iron hook next to some unfinished swords. “Come lad,” he paused, “and you too, orc.”

The smith led Hadvar and Mog around the corner to a thick wooden door. Opening it, he ushered them inside, before quickly sweeping his gaze across the now-empty street and following after them.

 

* * *

 

After teaching her soldier companions how to play rock-paper-scissors, and Ralof subsequently proving to be absolute rubbish at it (“But rock should always win, paper cannot beat anything by merely covering it!”), Donna found herself scrambling after the shaggy blond along the battlement wall that ran around the south and east sides of town. She only tripped three times, catching her too-large boots on rocks and roots while she tried to keep pace with the excited soldier. _I wonder how long it’s been since he last saw them?_ she mused, pushing down her own worries about when (and if) she would ever see her own family again.

Finally reaching the end of the wall, Ralof led her through an open gateway assuring her just beyond it stood his sister’s home.  _ Not much use for security, _ she thought, eyeing the rotted gates that lay on either side of the entrance. Once led past the poorly maintained defenses (if they could even be called that), Donna was brought up to an old stone cottage.  _ Looks like it came right out of a fairytale...is that a thatched roof? Yikes. _ A pair of fat, shaggy brown cows grazed in the yard, with several equally plump chickens clucking and bucking about near a small coop. Against one of the house’s walls stood a wooden hutch housing a few rabbits, nibbling lazily on bits of alfalfa and shriveled lettuce.

One of the cows, upon seeing Ralof, trod its way over and butted against his chest. Donna kept a close eye on its rather deadly-looking horns as Ralof proceeded to hug the woolly creature’s head and give it an affectionate scratch behind its ears.

“Ralof?”

They turned, and were met with the sight of a rather hale blonde woman clad in a thick, blue homespun dress. A thick pair of leather gloves were tucked into her belt and she carried a very full basket at her hip.

“Gerdur!” Ralof abandoned the cow, running towards his sister. As they collided, Gerdur’s basket went flying. With cabbages, potatoes and leeks strewn about their feet, they met in a fierce hug.

“Brother! Mara's mercy, it's good to see you!” Suddenly remembering herself, Gerdur clutched Ralof’s blond head to her chest protectively, scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

“Gerdur…” he mumbled into her chest. “Gerdur!”

“Oh, baby brother! ...But is it safe for you to be here? A passing merchant told us Ulfric had been captured…”

Finally prying himself from the clutches of Gerdur’s firm grip, Ralof straightened out his rumpled clothes. He grabbed his sister’s hand in his, while his other cradled her cheek. “Gerdur,” he stroked away a tear with his thumb. “Gerdur, I'm fine. At least now I am.”

Putting him at an arm’s length, Gerdur checked him over in a motherly fashion. “Are you hurt? What's happened?” Then her eyes landed on Donna, standing awkwardly in her fuzzy purple robe, rubbing her arm nervously under the woman’s scrutiny. “And who's this? Surely not one of your comrades?”

Looking back at Donna, Ralof shook his head and smiled. “Not a comrade yet, but a friend. I, uh…” Ralof hesitated for a moment. “I owe her my life, in fact.” Neither Donna nor Ralof missed the skeptical look Gerdur gave them. In fact, Donna felt a similar expression of disbelief across her own face. “Is...is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials…”

“Wait, Helgen?” Gerdur said with alarm. “Has something happened...?”

“Gerdur…” he began.

 “You're right, brother. Follow me.” They followed Gerdur, heading towards the thick wooden door of the cottage. “Oh! Ralof, head inside, I need to get Hod, he’ll want to hear what you have to say.” In a flurry of skirts and blonde hair, Gerdur headed back down the path she’d came from, almost rolling her ankle over a head of cabbage as she went.

Ralof sighed and shook his head as he watched her go. “Well then,” he looked at Donna and gave her a wink before offering her his arm. “Shall we, milady Don-don?”

Rolling her eyes, Donna reluctantly took Ralof’s arm and went along with him into the cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: We did it guys! We finally made it to Riverwood! Holy shit, that took forever. Things should hopefully pick up from here, though I will be so very sad when we finally leave Ralof and Hadvar behind...
> 
> I love cows, such sweet and loving little dudes. Naturally Ralof had to have a cow buddy! Any name suggestions for the shaggy lil' guy?
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	12. In which there is some talk of dragons.

Mog was quite impressed when he entered Alvor’s home. He couldn’t stop himself from comparing the impressive structure to his own dilapidated mountain shack. Immediately he began mentally mapping out improvements and planning adjustments based on the classic Nord architecture. Thick wooden planks made up the walls, lashed tightly together within a rough timber frame. Any gaps between the planks had long ago been packed with a thick, muddy paste to keep out the elements. Overhead, sturdy beams supported the vaulted ceiling, exposed sections showing the underside of a tightly-thatched roof. 

“Sigrid! Love of my life! We have company!” Alvor boomed out, drawing the attention of a chestnut-haired woman bent over a simmering iron cauldron. 

“Don’t you sweet talk me, Alvor. Not after last ni―Hadvar! We've been so worried about you!” Sigrid was shocked to see her nephew standing by her doorway. Mog was just as surprised when she smiled at him as well, his cheeks heating as he averted his gaze from the woman’s eyes to the mounted elk head over the hearth behind her. “Please do come in!” She ushered the two men to a worn wooden table, pushing aside a chopping board, a bowl of chicken eggs and an almost absurd amount of cabbages to make room on its surface. “Sit down, sit down! I'll get you something to eat, you two look hungry enough to eat a cave bear.”

“Speaking of,” said Alvor, “What were you doing here, Hadvar, looking like you lost an argument with said cave bear? What’s the big mystery?”

Hadvar graciously accepted a mug from Sigrid, draining it in one pull before answering his uncle. “I don't know where to start…”

“Why at the beginning, of course,” Alvor smiled kindly at his nephew. 

“Well...I was assigned to General Tullius's guard, his official scribe, like I wrote you last. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked...by a dragon.”

Sigrid almost dropped the second mug she held right into Mog’s lap, but the orc was quick enough to catch the vessel before it landed. He took a tentative sniff of the liquid within, identifying it as the thick alcoholic drink Lor would bring him sometimes, usually in amber bottles. He thought about the small collection of bottles and jars he had amassed back home; he had marveled at how the sunlight cast coloured shadows through the different shades of glasses. Mog followed Hadvar’s suit, but refrained from completely emptying the mug, for he preferred to savour his mead...and he almost spilt it himself when Alvor slapped a large, callused hand down on the table. 

“A dragon? That's...ridiculous.” His eyes scanned his nephew’s face for any sign of artifice. Finding none, he frowned further. “You aren't drunk, are you, boy?” 

Sigrid sighed and placed a third mug before the smith, and brought a few more bottles to the table. “Husband, let him tell his story.” She placed a delicate hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder, looking keenly at her nephew. Alvor rest his own massive paw of a hand over hers, and squeezed it lightly.

“Not much more to tell,” Hadvar replied, refilling his mug before settling back into his seat. “This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don't know if anyone else got out alive.” He turned to Mog, nodding and raising his mug in a friendly gesture. “I doubt I'd have made it out if not for my friend here.”

“Hadvar!” Mog nearly choked on his mead as a tiny blonde head appeared at his elbow. “Did you really see a dragon?” The young girl was tugging on Hadvar’s red sleeve, large hazel eyes gleaming with childish wonder. 

“Hush, child,” scolded Sigrid.

Ignorant of her mother’s plea, the child all but crawled into Hadvar’s lap. “What did it look like?”

“Oof, Dorthe, your getting too big for this, lass.” Hadvar chuckled as he pulled his cousin onto his knee.

“Did it have big teeth? Did it breathe fire? Did it―”

“Don’t pester your cousin.” Sigrid chided. “Go fetch our guests some stew.” She shooed her daughter off and away from Hadvar.

Dorthe stared miserably at the assemblage of adults, sloppily ladling spoonfuls of stew into a pair of unadorned wooden bowls.

Ignoring his wife and daughter, Alvor returned to their prior conversation. “And what of General Tullius, lad? Did he make it?”

Hadvar’s face fell. “I don’t know if any of them made it out alive. I...I guess I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what's happened.” He looked crestfallen at the thought of leaving his family behind, presumably at the mercy of a potential dragon attack. “I thought, well…” he sighed. “I thought you could help us out before I go. Food, supplies, a place to stay?”

Alvor waved off Hadvar’s concerns, “Of course! I'm glad to help in any way I can. And you,” he turned to Mog. “Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. Like I said, I'm glad to help.” Sigrid narrowed her eyes at her husband. “I mean, uh, we. We’re glad to help,” he corrected. “Any way we can.”

 

* * *

 

Donna was ever so grateful when Ralof offered her a seat. She sipped at a mug of what she thought was some sort of thick ale or mead, choking down the vile-tasting liquid while trying not to show her displeasure at Ralof’s presumably generous offering. Her boots lay in a muddied heap next to her feet, neon green toenails glowing eerily in the dim light provided by several small leaded windows above them. The fire burned softly in the hearth beside them, the flames barely reaching more than a few scant inches above the glowing embers. Across from her, Ralof was similarly seated on another wooden chair, his legs kicked out and crossed with his heel resting on the edge of the hearth. He was already on his second mug, obviously not as averse to the drink as Donna.

She was surprised to find that the stonework from the outside of the house carried through to the interior. Unlike the buildings she was accustomed to, there didn’t appear to be any layers of insulation or sheetrock. Instead, there were several large, structural pieces of timber, lashed together with tough hempen rope to make up a rough frame that supported the beams and rafters above. Bits of moss and sedge were stuffed into any gaps in the stonework, presumably to keep out any drafts. And if that wasn’t enough, there were quite a few large furs hanging up along the walls. What really shocked Donna, was that she could see the underside of the thatched roof clearly throughout the one-room house.  _ Does it not leak in the rain? _ How odd it all was to her, so backwards from what she knew back home.

The door opened, hinges creaking slightly as Gerdur returned. A tall, solidly built man stood just outside, clearly not pleased to have been dragged home from whatever he had been doing.

“Hod, please! Just come here a minute. I need your help with something.”

“What is it, woman? I know Sven wasn’t drunk on the job again...”

“Hod,” Gerdur grabbed his arm and tugged him inside. “Just come here.”

Once inside, it took Hod a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and when they did, the sight of two strangers seated comfortably by his fireside took completely by surprise. 

“Who―Ralof! What are you doing here?” Then he took in Donna in all of her purple hair-and-robe glory. “And who is this? You bring a witch in my home, boy?”

Donna shrank back into her seat, intimidated by the man’s angry posturing. Ralof was not so easily affected, instead rising to his feet and pulling the man into a firm hug. “Oh hush, you old bear. She’s nothing of the sort. Come, sit and I will tell you our tale.”

The front door suddenly banged open again, door swinging wildly as a young boy with a mop of tangled blond hair tumbled in, followed by an enormous shaggy brown dog. The heavy wooden door slammed behind them, rattling the windows as the lad cleaved to his uncle’s side.

“Uncle Ralof,” he cried. “Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?” A pair of large blue eyes stared up at Ralof, filled with the exuberant admiration only a child could possess for their heroes.

“Hush, Frodnar.” Gerdur pried her son off of her brother, with only minor difficulty. “This is no time for your games.”

“But…but...” Frodnar’s eyes dashed back and forth between his mother and his uncle.

“Go and watch the south road.” Gerdur started to herd the boy and his dog back out the door. “Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming.”

“Aw, mama, I wanna stay and talk with Uncle Ralof!”

Gerdur’s only response was to shove the boy bodily out the door and close it swiftly behind him. Reopening it only to toss the dog out after him. Dusting off her skirts, she joined her husband and guests by the hearth, pulling up a couple more chairs for herself and Hod.

“Now, Ralof, what's going on? You two look pretty well done in.” Hod looked at his brother-in-law with concern, noting the dark circles under his eyes and bruises on his arms.

Ralof scraped a hand down his face, ending with a tug on the end of his short blond beard. Watching him, Donna was reminded acutely of her own exhaustion. Slouching in her seat, she quietly sipped from her (disgusting) mug, quietly taking in the conversation and hoping she wouldn’t be asked too many questions.

“I can't remember when I last slept... Where to start?” Ralof looked to Donna and she shrugged, trying to look as useless as she felt. “Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. Like they knew exactly where we'd be…that was...” he stopped to think. “Two, three days ago, now?” He looked to Donna again for confirmation, but she only shrugged and tried to look even more confused. “We stopped in Helgen yesterday morning, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman's block and ready to start chopping.” 

“The cowards!” Gerdur spat.

“Aye, they wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would've seen the truth then. But then, out of nowhere…” he took a pull from his mug, pausing for effect. “A dragon attacked!”

Gerdur and Hod looked horrified, the former grabbing Ralof’s hands in her own, causing him to drop his thankfully empty mug on the flagstone floor. “You don't mean a real, live…” 

“I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away.” Gerdur nodded, as if to confirm that, yes indeed, they had managed to do so, despite that obvious fact that they both now sat at her hearth, drinking her mead and holding her hand. 

“Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?”

“Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know,” said Gerdur, shaking her head.

“Faendal mentioned seeing two travelers earlier this afternoon,” Hod replied. “Looked like a Legionnaire and big orc fellow, said they stopped by the blacksmith’s.”

Donna was relieved to hear that their former companions had made it safely to (presumably) Hadvar’s family, but she was concerned at the hostility of her hosts at the mention of his military affiliation. She’d gathered that there was some sort of conflict going on, a civil war or something between two factions; the Stormcloaks, led by that awful Ulfric character; and the Imperial Legion, a bunch of Roman soldier wannabes who apparently liked to chop heads and ask questions later.

“Well then,” said Ralof thoughtfully, knowing very well what said Legionnaire and orc were up to. “Maybe we can lay up for a while? I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but…”

Gerdur waved her hand dismissively at her brother. “Nonsense. You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let me worry about those Imperial dogs.” She looked then at Donna, who was still meekly sipping at her mug. “Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine. Here's a key to the house. Stay as long as you like. If there's anything else you need, just let me know.”

“Thanks, sister. I knew I could count on you,” he looked at Hod. “And you as well, Hod.”

“We ought to get back to work before we’re missed,” Gerdur made to rise, but stopped midway. “But...did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric…”

“Don't worry, I'm sure he made it out.” Ralof gave Gerdur a wink. “It would take more than a dragon to stop the mighty Ulfric Stormcloak.” 

Seeing his wife rise to leave, Hod saw an opportunity, and took it. “I'll show them around the house then, and, you know, where everything is and such,” he smiled innocently at his wife.

“Hmph, help them drink up our mead, you mean…” she rolled her eyes, heading to the door. “Good luck, brother. I'll see you later.”

“Don't worry about me. I know how to lay low.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I tried to mix up the game dialogue a bit, but I wanted to stay true to the general scripts for meeting Ralof and Hadvar’s families. Next chapter will be more focused on our main characters, now that we’ve got those pesky Riverwooders mostly taken care of ;)
> 
> In the game, I always found it interesting how excited Ralof was to see Frodnar, and how dismissive everyone is of Dorthe. Poor girl just wants to be a badass and do fun stuff, but no one wants to let her. Meanwhile, Frodnar is encouraged to be a hell-raiser. Where's the justice??? ლ(ಠ益ಠლ)
> 
> Edited: 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	13. In which an orc makes a friend and potatoes are peeled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ahem*  
> YOU GUYS ARE FANTASTIC!  
> Enjoy!

The sun was beginning its daily descent, sinking slowly behind the Brittleshin mountains, haloing the peaks in pinks and golds. It was quite a sight to behold, and Mog was keen to enjoy it to its fullest as he leaned over the railing of Alvor’s partially enclosed smithy porch. A damp linen towel hung across his shoulders, catching the remaining droplets of water as they fell from his long black hair. His own clothes (if you could even call those ragged scraps such a thing) had been taken away by Sigrid, claiming she could use them for, well, something. In their place, he now sported a borrowed set of shirt and trousers from Alvor. The once-white homespun shirt bore the marks of his trade, with tiny holes from stray embers and slag spatter on the front. The brown pants were a few inches too short, and the shirt was tight across his broad shoulders, but he was grateful to be clean and clad in something other than prison-issue rags.

Though this was his second river-bath of the past couple days, it was significantly more enjoyable than the first. Sigrid had lent him a bar of soap, a small vial of oil for his hair (“Would be a shame not to take proper care of such a gorgeous mane,” she’d said with a wink) and even a comb made of carved bone. Mog couldn’t ever remember a time where he had been afforded such luxury, and was already making plans to show his gratitude to Hadvar’s kind family.

Distracted by his thoughts, as well as the glorious sight of the sunset, Mog wasn’t aware he had a visitor on the porch until he heard a soft, grumbling noise by his elbow. Looking down and to his left, he was quite surprised to see Hadvar’s cousin, the young blonde girl hanging off the railing beside him. Her arms were slung over the rail, head and shoulders draped over in a dejected pose. Unsure of what else to do, Mog made a grunting sound of acknowledgement.

“Mhn.”

Sigh went the girl.

“Mhn.”

She let out an even more dramatic sigh, flopping herself further over the banister.

Snorting at the child’s exasperation, he mimicked her stance, the wood creaking under his weight.

The girl gave him a sideways glance, before sighing loudly for a third time.

“Keep that up, you’ll blow all the snow offa’ those mountains.”

A pair of curious hazel eyes looked over at Mog.

“Seen it happen once. Left a big ol’ bald spot right atop the Jeralls.”

She giggled, posture straightening to a slightly more graceful slump.

“I swear, s’true!” Mog said, eyes widening in feigned seriousness.

“That where you’re from, Mister Orc, the Jeralls?”

“Aye,” he replied. “S’where I live.”

“You a smith, Mister Orc? Papa says orcs is good blacksmiths.”

Mog shook his head. “No, I’m no smith. Name’s Mog, Rozak Mog, not ‘Mister Orc’. Mister Orc is my father,” he winked at her, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. “What’s your name then?”

“Dorthe,” she replied. “And I’m a smith! Or at least, I’m papa’s assistant...I mean, apprentice.”

“Make any blades yet, Miss Dorthe?”

“No,” she scowled. “Papa says I’m not ready for weapons. So I make lots of horseshoes and hobnails.”

Mog had no idea what either of those things were, but he nodded anyways.

“Someday I’m gonna forge my own sword!” She swung down, hanging by her arms from the rail. “Papa may have wanted a son, but he got me… Ain’t nothing a boy can do that I can’t do better.”

“S’long as you keep at it, don’t see why you won’t be running this smithy one day.”

“You really think so, Mister Or― I’m mean, Mister Mog?” Dorthe looked up at him, excited at the prospect. “Papa says I’m too friendly with strangers, but you seem all right… ‘Course you’re Hadvar’s friend, right?” With that, she stood up and extended a small, slightly sticky hand. “Any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend of mine!”

Rozak Mog took the girl’s hand, marveling at how tiny it was in comparison to his own as she enthusiastically pumped his arm up and down.

The two of them watched as the sun set, staying out on the porch until it had disappeared behind the western mountains and the first twinkling lights of the stars emerged in the skies above. Mog had smiled to himself, Dorthe had promised him that tomorrow she would show him how to work the forge. Although he felt Alvor might have some objection, the child’s candidness in her offering did wonders for his spirit. Rampaging dragons, imprisonment and near-death by headsman’s axe aside, maybe something good had come from all of it, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Hope you don’t mind the sleeping arrangements,” said Hadvar as he lay out a pair of bedrolls on the basement floor. “Doesn’t get very cold down here, either. We’re right below the hearth.”

“More than I’ve had in months.”

“Aye, been on the road for so long, don’t think I could even sleep in a proper bed, anyways.”

Mog didn’t know what else to say to that, although he was fairly certain that Hadvar’s previous accommodations had been significantly nicer than his own.

“Dorthe wasn’t bothering you earlier, was she?” Hadvar inquired. “That girl gets into all kinds of trouble, or so Sigrid tells me, especially with one of the young lads across town.”

“She’s no trouble,” Mog assured him. “Told me she’d teach me how to smith tomorrow.”

“Girl’s got it in her head that she’ll be taking over Alvor’s forge one day. Treats her like a young lad, drives Sigrid crazy, things she gets up to. Not lady-like, ya know?”

Mog crossed his brows at the comment.  _ Lady-like? What does that even mean? _ “Can’t a lady run a forge?”

“Things around here aren’t like your strongholds. Sure, women can smith, but a girl like Dorthe?” Hadvar shook his head. “Well, she’ll be better off settling down and marrying. I suspect whoever she weds will probably take over for Alvor, probably apprentice with him a few years before he does.”

“Said he had an apprentice already.”

“Oh? I don’t suppose it’s that drunken sop, Embry. Is it Sven, then?”

“No, her.” Mog didn’t know where this Embry or Sven were, or why Hadvar seemed so adamant that young Dorthe couldn’t possibly manage to become the resident blacksmith herself, but he was growing weary of the conversation and irritated at the insistence that a woman needed marrying or whatever. Of course, he only had a vague idea of what ‘marrying’ was, so he couldn’t be entirely sure as to the results thereof. “Been a long day, gonna turn in.”

“Hm, well okay,” said Hadvar, confused by Mog’s sudden abandonment of their friendly banter. “I’ll be back down shortly, just going to go clean up, get out of this uniform and into something less conspicuous.”

Mog made a beeline for the bedroll furthest from the basement stairs, climbing inside and pulling the covers almost completely over his head. If he curled his knees up to his chest, he could just keep himself almost entirely covered. He could hear Hadvar puttering about, and the occasional clang as the soldier removed pieces of armor. The creaking of wooden steps told Mog when he was finally alone, and he pulled back the covers slightly. He wasn’t too keen on sleeping in the basement, the cold stone walls and floors reminded him a little too much of his dungeon cell back in Fort Neugrad. A single candle had been left burning on the table closest to the stairs, throwing odd shadows with its flickering light. The orc tried his best to focus on the more positive events of the past few days, but his mind kept drawing him back to thoughts he’d rather not think too deeply upon. 

Thoughts of elves with golden skin, twisted smiles with too-sharp teeth and dragons with pitch black scales raced through his head, his heart pounding as horrific images flashed before his eyes. He curled into himself, hands clenched into fists so tightly his knuckles whitened and his fingernails dug deep gouges into his palms. A sharp, burning sensation in his left hand broke his nightmarish reverie. Holding it up to the feeble light, he was shocked to see a mark seared into his palm; three dots arranged in triangular formation, with a line connecting each of them to a fourth central dot. The wound was still fresh, the burnt skin raised and appearing almost silvery in colour against his mossy pallor in the glow of the candle.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, between Gerdur leaving and Hod’s ‘tour’ of the stone cottage, Donna found herself bent over a small mountain of potatoes, trying to peel them with a small, sharp blade as the now-returned Frodnar nattered on in her ear. He was supposed to be helping her, but seemed intent on doing nothing that even remotely resembled ‘helping’ by any definition of the word, instead carving rude shapes out of the tuber’s white flesh.  _ Useless brat. _ She spent her time alternating between hummed acknowledgements to the young lad’s idle chatter and glaring in the direction of her increasingly drunk host and the now totally soused Ralof. Every now and then, the boy’s giant shaggy dog would let out a piercing bark that spiked the dull ache that had settled behind her eyes.

_ How the hell did I get stuck on dinner duty? Ugh, this place is the worst!  _ Donna hacked at the spuds while shooting daggers at the back of Hod’s stupid, blond pony-tailed head. The man came in the standard-issue size of what Donna had come to understand as the local variant of ‘Nord’, not to be confused with the allegedly (according to Hod’s crude commentary) inferior ‘Imperials’, which seemed to be both a race and also some sort of political alignment?  _ Racists and misogynists! How lucky I am to find myself amongst such hospitable troglodytes!  _

“So, yer a priestess, aye?” Hod had finally finished extolling Ulfric’s exorbitant virtues and decided to pay attention to Ralof’s ‘guest’.

“Er, yes?” Donna averted her scowling eyes down to the potatoes.

“An’ who’s yer patron then,” the enormous blond leaned over her, ale dripping down from his drooping Hulk Hogan-esque moustache.

“Well… Uh, you know…”

“Yes?”

Behind them, Ralof laughed quietly to himself, clearly amused by the confrontation.

“I’m uh… OH, TABERNAC!”

Another irritating bark from the dog had jarred Donna, causing the knife to slice into her finger. She stuffed the offending digit into her mouth, trying to ignore the combined flavour of potato, dirt and blood.

“Tay-ber-nak?” Hod raised his bushy brows at her. “Just where did you say you were from, lass?”

Donna couldn’t be bothered to correct his assumption, nor his pronunciation, choosing instead to keep her bloody finger jammed firmly against her tongue. Luckily, Ralof seemed aware enough of the conversation to answer for her.

“Chrawn-nah?” Ralof tried, “Trawnna?”

Donna snorted, _Is that how I actually said it earlier?_ She took her sore finger from her mouth. “Toe-ron-toe.”

“Tuh-ronn-oh?” Hod couldn’t quite grasp the sounds.

She shook her head, unable to suppress her grin as the two drunk men tried and failed to pronounce the name, with increasing belligerence.

“Tor-on-tah?”

“Shoranna!”

“Tarrantah!”

“Chrant-nah!”

Good lord, it was practically like she was back home. Donna finished up with peeling and chopping, tipping the vegetables into a large cast-iron pot hanging over the fireplace. Frodnar had built the fire back up to a roaring blaze, and the smell of some sort of meat stew now permeated the air. As to what animal they would be dining on, Donna couldn’t say, although judging by the small bundle of furs tucked away in the corner, it was a fair estimate that those cute little rabbits in the hutch outside weren’t just being kept as pets.  _ Hasenpfeffer, _ thought Donna.  _ Every day the same thing, variety! Bah! I want something different, cook! Bring me hasenpfeffer! _

 

* * *

 

Dinner eaten, Frodnar struggling to read a book and Ralof slumped against a snoring Hod at the dinner table, Gerdur invited Donna to join her at the bathhouse, which she graciously accepted. With a kerchief hiding her violet hair and a borrowed dress tucked under her arm, Donna followed the brawny woman outside to a wooden shed tucked behind a large building down the road. The bathhouse, Gerdur explained, was built as part of the local inn but was communally available to the local residents. With Riverwood’s smaller population, it was far more practical than individual bathhouses and spared bathing in the icy White River during the colder months. Donna had nodded along, knowing full well how uncomfortable her chilly river bath had been and could only imagine how impossible washing would be in the winter months. At least these people held some semblance of hygienic practices, though Donna grievously wished for some type of deodorant to be added to their daily retinue.

The bathhouse was a simple structure, built slightly into the ground with walls made of wide planks and thick timber posts. Inside, it was much the same as Gerdur’s house in construction, though the only stone wall was the one shared with the inn. In the corner closest to the doorway stood a round wooden tub, set into a low frame of stone and wood. Across the back was an L-shaped bench, wrapping around a low fire pit with blazing coals. It looked to Donna’s untrained eye like something of a cross between a sauna and an old Japanese spa, and every inch of it begged her draw hither.

Donna’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head when Gerdur unceremoniously disrobed and hung her soiled dress on a nail by the door. Grabbing a few logs from beneath the bench, Gerdur tossed them into the fire pit, before settling herself in a relaxed sprawl on the wooden seat. Averting her eyes, Donna stood awkwardly by the door. While she was no stranger to nudity (she had seen Game of Thrones after all!) the woman’s brazen nonchalance towards semi-public nakedness was way outside of her comfort zone. Not to mention how woefully out of shape she felt next to the taller woman’s muscular build. Working the mill had left its mark, that was for sure. Though Donna was fairly certain they might have weighed the same, Gerdur held almost none of her softness, save the tell-tale signs of past pregnancy on her stomach. She felt a pang of jealousy at the thick, muscular build her host possessed, something Donna could only dream of having. 

“Well,” said Gerdur, waving to the tub. “Have your bath then, priestess.”

Feeling her cheeks flush, Donna took off her glasses, stripped down to her birthday suit and clambered into the bath as quickly as she could, hoping Gerdur couldn’t see how her chubby thighs jiggled as she did. The water was lukewarm at best, and she had a sudden thought that she might be sharing her bathwater with whomever had previously occupied the tub, but so determined she was to finally get properly clean that she pushed all thoughts aside except for the task at hand.

“Here, catch.” Donna barely managed to snag the square of soap as it was lobbed towards her from across the small room. It smelled like lavender, which wasn’t unpleasant in and of itself, but it was quite strong.  _ Guess I’ve got my deodorant after all, _ she scoffed, eyes starting to burn at the almost pungent smell. Getting down to it, Donna dunked her head and began working up a lather in her short hair. 

“Oh.”

She turned, blinking water droplets out of her eyes to squint at Gerdur.

“Y-your hair…”

“Uh…” Donna looked at the bright purple suds that now dripped down from her head. “Oh ya…that.” 

“I thought it was some sort of spell, to tell the truth.”

“Just dye, I’m afraid,” Donna replied. “Though if you know a spell to keep it this way, I’d be more than happy to learn it, eh?”

Gerdur shook her head, frowning at the implication. “None around these parts who practice such crafts, least not to my ken.”

Donna then thought better of bringing up Hadvar and Ralof’s recent magic-workings.

“What in Talo’s name possessed you to do such a thing, anyways? Part of your order’s doctrines? I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“Naw, started doing it when I was younger, thought it looked cool, ya know?”

Gerdur’s expression confirmed that no, she did not.

“Anyways, it’s quite common where I’m from. Getting to be almost too common, much as it annoys me to admit it. Lots of people dye their hair, any colour you can imagine really! ‘Course, my mom  _ hates  _ it, nearly left my dad after he helped me dye it the first time…” she sighed, bitterly reminded of her present situation.

Sensing her malaise, Gerdur tried to change the topic. “How did you meet my brother, Ralof? He said you saved his life? No offense, Donna, priestess of Tahbernak, but I find  _ that  _ difficult to imagine, let alone believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Gosh, Mog and Dorthe together warms my heart <3 The was originally going to be two chapters, but what the heck, y'all deserve it!
> 
> The ‘hasenpfeffer’ quote is, of course, from the ever delightful Bugs Bunny, specifically the episode ‘Shishkabugs’.
> 
> Fun fact: You can tell how far away someone lives from the city of Toronto (and what neighbourhood the locals are from) by how correctly they pronounce the name.
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	14. In which a star is born.

Ralof had only stayed for three days before gathering a small pack of supplies and heading out to regroup with Jarl Ulfric’s company in Windhelm, wherever that was. Donna couldn’t help but feel abandoned, despite their brief acquaintance, she had come to rely on the soldier as a sort of touchstone in the otherwise alien world of Skyrim. Though Gerdur and Hod had assured her that she was more than welcome to remain a guest in their home, she knew such generosity wouldn’t last forever. 

Nor did she want it to.

Try as she might, Donna was completely inept when it came to any sort of manual labour. She tried to help out by doing Gerdur’s mending, but her hands were shaking so badly from nicotine withdrawal that she couldn’t stitch a straight line to save her life. It was a pity, as sewing was one of the few things she felt otherwise confident in doing, having assisted friends in creating their cosplay outfits throughout much of her high school years. Cooking was proving to be similarly challenging, she didn’t trust herself to keep the blade of a knife out of her fingers, and God forbid she try to help dressing the dead animals Hod would bring home for dinner. Her first and only attempt had ended with her passed out in a puddle of her own vomit. This style of living was not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach, and unfortunately for Donna, she was in possession of both in irritating abundance.

To make matters worse, she was now bunking down with Ralof’s nephew, the incorrigible, often-times bratty Frodnar. The kid was an unholy terror, constantly pulling endless pranks and spinning lies that more often than not, would go unpunished by his parents. Hell, Donna had even caught Hod praising the boy for apparently nailing a coin to the steps of a local store! Not to mention how he’d glued that poor cow’s teats together! That had conveniently coincided with the morning Gerdur had tried to teach her to milk the pair of shaggy creatures, and it had not ended well for anyone involved. She hoped Ralof never found out what had happened to his precious cow...

Yes, the sooner Donna got out of that madhouse, the better.

And so it came to be that she found herself seeking some sort of distraction, hell, an occupation, outside of the mill owners’ stone cottage. Clad in a blue kerchief that carefully covered her outlandish hair, and one of Gerdur’s donated ill-fitting dresses (with the bottom few inches roughly cut off  to compensate for their difference in height) Donna explored the small town of Riverwood. 

After spending the past few days scarcely leaving the dimly lit cottage, save for short jaunts in the small enclosed yard while (failing) performing simple farm-type chores, the freedom was exhilarating. The sun was shining, the blue sky was mostly cloud-free, and no one in her immediate vicinity smelled horribly of B.O.! It was shaping up to be a rather lovely afternoon…until she turned a corner and crashed into an unsuspecting townsperson.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry!” Donna cried, helping the man to his feet. “Shit! Are you okay? I should hav―”

“No, no! I’m the one who should apologize!” 

Donna did a double-take, initially mistaking the young man for Ralof. Upon closer inspection, she realized that despite both possessing the same shoulder-length, blond hair and general build, that was where the similarities ended. Both had blue eyes, but Ralof’s had been lighter, and his nose longer. Where Ralof had a beard, this man was clean-shaven, and unlike Ralof’s shaggy mane with its single braid, this fellow kept his ties back in some sort of partial updo. This new man also seemed to be a few years younger, his face bore no sign of lines or hardship like her friend’s had.

While Donna was busy scrutinizing his appearance, the young man had continued talking.

“I’m sorry, bud, but I missed that last bit?”

“I was saying, miss, that I was the one at fault. I was distracted, you see. I’m composing a new song. A ballad,” he gave a small shake of his head. “Some day she will know of my affection. Some day…”

The lovelorn look on the man’s face was unmistakable, Donna knew it all too well. And if this young man already had an object for his affections, surely there would be no harm in befriending him?  _ He mentioned writing a song, maybe he has an instrument or something… a guitar, perhaps? It’s been so long since I’ve played something…  _ “You mentioned writing a song? Are you a, um” Donna wracked her brain, trying to find suitable terminology for the backwards world she was in. “Are you a bard?”

“Aye, that I am!” 

_ Bingo. _ Suddenly all those late nights embroiled in Dungeons and Dragons sessions had finally paid off, even if it did result in almost failing her first year of college. Telling her mother she was on academic probation had been a real treat.

“You should come hear me play at the Sleeping Giant Inn. For a small sum you can even pick the song… Oh! Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself.” He held out a well-manicured, yet slightly callused hand. “Sven Bragison, at your service!”

Donna gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile and shook his proffered hand. “Donna King, pleased to meet you, Sven.”

 

* * *

 

After a few more pleasantries, Donna found herself invited to join Sven at the inn he worked for. While she wasn’t all that keen on heading inside on such a lovely day, the promise of hearing Sven perform on his lute (and hopefully getting to play said lute if she played her cards right, no double entendre intended, perverts...) she followed him inside the large wood building. Inside, Donna noted that the furnishings were much the same as those in Gerdur’s cottage, the rustic wooden furniture looked to have been created in much the same fashion, though less ornate. Exposed timbers seemed to be the style of the day, and the exposed beams of the ceiling offered little than a visual stopgate between the room and vaulted ceilings. 

A pair of iron candelabras hung down on thick chains overhead, fatty candles blazing merrily in horn sconces held fast in the black metal. A large fire pit took up the centre of the open room, an enormous spit spanning its length. While currently bare, Donna could imagine it was large enough to comfortably roast an entire cow,  _ maybe even a small mammoth? _ A pair of elk heads were mounted high of one wall, their sightless eyes bearing witness to the goings-on of the tavern below. Several large furs hung from the walls, serving as both decoration and, more practically, as insulation for the colder months. 

The whole place just screamed Viking longhouse to Donna, and yet again she wondered if she was truly in another world, or had somehow just traveled backwards in time in her own.  _ We didn’t have dragons, though. And magic definitely doesn’t exist.  _ Still, the subtle likenesses between this world and her own was a small comfort, though also quite unsettling.

“Orgnar. Orgnar!”

Donna scanned the room for the speaker, eyes landing on a middle-aged blonde woman in blue homespun striding up to the bar on the far side of the inn. Her intended target, a dour-faced, dark haired man staring listlessly into nothingness, leaning his head on his arm, elbow supporting both on the bartop. 

“Are you listening?” She waved a hand in front of the man’s face.

Groaning, he replied, “Hard not to.” His eyes looked over at the woman, but he maintained his careless stance.

“The ale is going bad. We need to get a new batch.” She leaned over the side of the bar, eyes fierce. “Did you hear me?”

“Yep,” Orgnar replied curtly. “Ale’s going bad.”

“Guess you don’t have potatoes in your ears after all.” She straightened, heading back to a side room and paused in the doorway. “Just make sure we get a fresh batch in soon.”

Finally taking notice of Donna and Sven, Orgnar nodded at them in the barest hint of acknowledgement before returning to his stare to apathetic nothingness.

“That’s Orgnar, he’s the barkeep,” relayed Sven. “Woman who was just hollering at him is Delphine, she owns the inn, likes to keep things running smoothly. Don’t mind their sniping, that’s just how they are.”

“Reminds me of my folks,” Donna related. “If they aren’t bitching at each other, they aren’t happy, eh?”

Nodding sagely, Sven directed her to a pair of comfortable-looking padded chairs by the fire. “I’ll just be a moment, need to grab my instrument. Can I get you a drink? Mead, ale?”

“No offense, but I’m not overly fond of either.”

“Perhaps wine, then? Should still have some bottles of spiced wine from our last shipment from Solitude.”

_ Solitude? What kind of a name was that? _ “Sounds alright to me.”

Sven returned shortly with a pair of carved wooden tankards in hand and a lute slung over his shoulder. Donna politely thanked him, taking a hesitant sip from her drink. It was surprisingly tasty, reminding her more of a mulled cider than a wine. She settled into her chair, drawing up one leg to tuck under her lap. Gone were her stupid, too-big boots, replaced by a simple pair of slippers that fit snugly to her feet and didn’t hinder her movements. If Sven thought her manner of sitting odd, he didn’t say anything, placing his own drink down on the edge of the open hearth to warm as he began readying his lute.

Some fiddling and tuning later, Donna got her first real taste of what passed for music in the land of Skyrim.

_      We drink to our youth, to days come and gone. _ _   
_ _     For the age of aggression is just about done. _

_      We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own.  _ _   
_ _     With our blood and our steel we'll take back our home. _

_      Down with Ulfric, the killer of kings. _ _   
_ _     On the day of your death we'll drink and we'll sing. _

_      We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives. _ _   
_ _     And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies! _

_      But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean. _ _   
_ _     Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams. _

“Er, wow!” Donna applauded, unsure if the performance had actually qualified as good or not. “Very nice, you have, uh, such a- you have such skill! Did you have any, um, any formal training?”

“My time at the Bards College was brief. A prodigy has little need for formal education,” he declared, puffing up his chest at his own praising. “I trained as a skald, as my father did, and my father's father before him.”

“That’s so great! They must be so...so proud!”

“Indeed,” he flashed her a grin, revealing mouth of square, white teeth. “And yourself? You said you played, what was it, a guy-tar? What is a guy-tar, anyways?”

“It’s like a lute, just a bit more…” she struggled to explain, eventually relenting, “It’s just a bit different, eh? Less strings, I think. Same idea, though.”

Sven nodded, unsure but still happy to talk his trade with a friendly ear.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me try playing, would you? I’d be honoured to play such a fine instrument.”

Donna was delighted when Sven agreed and passed her the lute, her stubby fingers dancing over the strings and marveling at the construction of the bowl and curving lines of the ornate neck. It was a well-used, well-maintained piece of equipment, the finish worn smooth by years of use.

“Was this your father’s?” she asked, awestruck.

“Aye, he made it when I was just a babe, gave it to me right before he left for the Great War.”

That Sven’s father hadn’t returned from said war was left unspoken, though the implication rested heavily on Donna. It reminded her of her own Fender guitar back home, once belonging to her own father, though he was still alive and kicking.

“Guess I’ll have to play something worthy of his memory, then.”

She shuffled through her mental tracklist of songs, trying to settle on something that wouldn’t be too out of place and out her as an alien, or whatever she was to this place. Then she remembered Sven’s earlier talk of his lady love, and she knew, oh boy she knew exactly what to play. Her inner jukebox dropped the pin, and she began to play:

_      I came upon a charming girl and Sarah is her name, _ __   
_     Her parents wants a husband with riches, wealth and fame, _ __   
_     I have no wealth but riches and fame, has never come my way _ _   
_ __     ‘til the night I went to visit my love and through the keyhole say:

_      Sarah, Sarah won’t you come out tonight, _ __   
_     Sarah, Sarah the moon is shining bright, _ __   
_     Put you hat and jacket on, tell your mother you won’t be long, _ _   
_ __     And I’ll be waiting for you round the corner!

It became apparent to Donna as she played that Sven wasn’t used to such lengthy tunes, if his bewildered expression was anything to go by. Nevertheless, she continued:

_      My Sarah is a girl like this, a girl you seldom see _ __   
_     She loves me only for myself and not for my money _ __   
_     Every night at eight o’clock, she puts the needle away _ _   
_ __     And standing just outside her door and through the keyhole say:

_      Sarah, Sarah won’t you come out tonight, _ __   
_     Sarah, Sarah the moon is shining bright, _ __   
_     Put you hat and jacket on, tell your mother you won’t be long, _ _   
_ __     And I’ll be waiting for you round the corner!

Though she wasn’t sure about him being a ‘musical prodigy’, Donna was pleased when Sven joined her for the second chorus. Unbeknownst to either, Delphine had re-emerged from wherever she’d gone off to, and now leaned against a nearby pillar, listening intently.

_      One night a little after eight, I crept up to her door _ _   
_ _     and whisper― _

The door of the inn opening startled them, but Donna was quick to pick up her place. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted two people had entered, but she chose to focus instead on her performance.

_      One night a little after eight, I crept up to her door _ __   
_     and whispered, “Sarah, darling” as I often done before _ __   
_     “I’ll give you Sarah” said a voice, as down I went to flop! _ _   
_ __     And her Mother sang as she kicked me all around the shop!

_      Sarah, Sarah won’t you come out tonight, _ __   
_     Sarah, Sarah the moon is shining bright, _ __   
_     Put you hat and jacket on, tell your mother you won’t be long, _ _   
_ __     And I’ll be waiting for you round the corner!

_      The old woman thought she killed me and I let her think so too _ __   
_     As I lay there on the floor I scarce knew what to do _ __   
_     At last she said ” alive or dead? My girl I’ll let him wed.” _ _   
_ __     And up I jumps said “Thank you, Ma’am” and to my girl I said:

_      Sarah, Sarah won’t you come out tonight, _ __   
_     Sarah, Sarah the moon is shining bright, _ __   
_     Put you hat and jacket on, tell your mother you won’t be long, _ _   
_ __     And I’ll be waiting for you round the corner!

With a flourish, Donna repeated the last chords. She was surprised to hear several people clapping, but pushed past her initial shyness to stand and take a small bow. She could feel the blush rising up to her cheeks as she passed Sven back his lute. His eyes were shining, and she knew immediately that she would be teaching him the song so he could work it into his own repertoire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sven’s surname is a nod to Bragi Boddason, author of one of the oldest surviving Norse poems, considered one of the first skalds. No honour names for this guy because let’s be real, Sven’s a bit of a goober in-game.
> 
> The design of Sven’s lute is based on ‘Realistic Instruments - Flute Lute and Drum HQ’ by InwardScreams on Nexus. I prefer it to the original design, it actually looks like it belongs in the world of Skyrim, in lieu of the weird red colouring and stupid strings Bethesda decided looked “good enough” instead of attempting a modicum of accuracy… *sigh*
> 
> Donna’s song, ‘Sarah’ is by Buddy Wasisname and The Other fellers. Traditionally it is sung acapella, but it adapts easily enough to guitar (or lute!)
> 
> Sven's song is, of course, 'The Age of Aggression'. What kind of Modern Girl in Skyrim fic would this be if we didn't bash on everyone's favourite song? ;D
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	15. In which an orc gets a job.

“The Legion could really use someone like you, Rozak Mog, especially now.” Hadvar had insisted. “And if the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius is the only one who can stop them… Gods, I do hope he made it out of Helgen.”

Rozak Mog hadn’t been even remotely convinced. “Man ordered my execution, why should I help him?”

“I don’t blame you for being angry about it, you haven’t had the best introduction to the Legion.”

“They imprisoned me.”

“But it was all a mistake!”

“Interrogated me.”

“Well, surely-”

“Tortured me.”

“You shouldn’t have been in that cart with those Stormcloak traitors.”

“Hadvar, they tried to execute me.”

Sighing, the soldier relented. “I understand, my friend. It's not easy to go from being executed by the Legion one day to joining up the next. But,” he had looked hopefully at the orc. “I think you'll see that the Legion is Skyrim's only hope for real peace right now. I know you'll make the right choice in the end."

The orc was unhappy to see Hadvar go, but the Imperial soldier’s unwavering sense of duty to his cause was admirable, even if Rozak Mog thought it misplaced. Staying behind also left him in the uncomfortable position of relying on the hospitality of Hadvar’s family, who were virtual strangers to the misplaced orc. With the exception of young Dorthe, they didn’t seem to give him much pause, carrying on with their lives as if the large orsimer dwelling in their basement wasn’t there at all. Sure, they offered him a place at their table, and Sigrid had been more than charitable, providing him with second-hand clothes and lending basic toiletries, but Rozak Mog could tell that with Hadvar gone, their altruistic accommodations would be short-lived unless he could start pulling his own weight.

There was also his desire to return to his mountain home. He missed the solitude of his former existence, broken up only by the occasional visits of the elven twins. Thinking of Latta and Lor made him frown, he still didn’t quite know what to make of their involvement, if any, in his incarceration. Yes, the sooner he returned home and confronted them, the better. He couldn’t very well go about making assumptions on their character, not when they had been so good to him in the past.

Such a journey would take time, and supplies, however. It seemed that the only solution to his problems would be solved with coin, as Dorthe had told him. Unaccustomed to the concepts of commerce and trade, Rozak Mog had been fascinated by her explanations of purchasing goods and services not with returned efforts, but with small, golden disks. He grasped that these tokens were meant to represent some sort of value, but the idea seemed ridiculous to him, having previously only relied on his own abilities for survival. Still, if this was how things were done, Rozak Mog would make do.

At Dorthe’s suggestion, and after several sessions with the girl showing him the basic workings of her father’s forge, Mog found himself standing before the man himself, offering whatever services he could provide around the smith’s shop.

“You uh, need any help around the forge?” He stood awkwardly, a hand rubbing at the back of his head nervously.

Alvor had given him a once over, and seeing Dorthe nodding behind the imposing orc, he assented, “Yes, actually.” He brought Mog an iron blade blank, about ten inches long and a couple inches wide. “How about you smith me an iron dagger? Got everything you need here, show me what you can do.”

The next few hours involved a lot of hammering for Mog, who was constantly questioning Dorthe on the process and his next steps. For her part, the young girl was extremely helpful, gladly giving him pointers and suggestions to improve upon his work. That is, until her mother finally found her and dragged the girl away from the forge, saying something about vegetables and knitting blankets.

Without Dorthe’s guidance, Mog’s final steps lacked confidence. After several tries, he had finally successfully wrapped the tang handle in such a manner that the leather strips wouldn’t unravel, but it wasn’t the neatest of jobs. Finally, Mog presented Alvor with his freshly crafted dagger.

 “Here’s the dagger.”

“Ah, yes. So it is.” Alvor picked up the small blade, examining with a trained eye. “It’s… It’s not bad. Little dull though, how about you try sharpening it up?” Boy, that was a hell of an understatement. “You just need a bit of metal and the grindstone over there.” Alvor passed Mog another bit of metal and a rasp, directing him to the grindstone.

Once he got over the initial shock of the spraying sparks, he set to work putting a proper edge on his blade. This, at least, was something more familiar to him. He’d made his own weapons before, though usually out of wood and stone. The principle was the same, and he felt considerably more confident in his work when he handed the sharpened blade back to the smith.

“This looks...good? You put a lot of time into it, that’s for sure.”

Mog nodded uneasily, not quite liking the man’s tone.

“Still, should test it. Make sure it keeps an edge.”

The orc watched with bated breath as Alvor used the dagger to cut off a strip of leather hide.

SNAP.

The top third of the blade broke off, still stuck in the tough hide.

Both men looked at it, dumbfounded.

“You have... talent.” Alvor said hesitantly, just as shocked at the dagger’s weakness as its maker. “Keep working at your craft, eh?  You could be a fine smith...one day.” Handing the broken remains back to Mog, he gave him a weak smile. “Why don’t you keep this dagger, huh?” Mog took the busted blade, cradling it miserably in his hands.

At least Dorthe wasn’t around to see, he thought. I’d never hear the end of it. Tucking the dagger into his belt and feeling all the more foolish for it, Mog set about looking for an alternative means of employment.

 

* * *

 

Sitting on the wooden walkway connecting the riverlocked logging mill to the town, Mog sat, dejected. He fiddled with the handle of his pathetic dagger, berating himself for his ineptitude.  _ Dorthe had said the orsimer people where great smiths, what sort of orc am I, who cannot craft even the simplest of iron weapons? _ A shadow fell over him, an unfamiliar voice speaking out:

“Haven’t seen your face before, traveler. You new to Riverwood?”

Mog looked up, surprised to find the speaker not a Nord, but a Bosmer man. “Just passin’ through,” he replied glumly. 

“Busted pigsticker like that’s not going to get you far, friend,” he gestured to Mog’s dagger. “Best visit the blacksmith, Alvor.”

_ Seriously? _ “Just came from there.”

“I’ve never known Alvor to―”

“I made it. Tried to help out, couldn’t even make a decent blade.”

“Oh,” the wood elf’s ears drooped empathetically. “You looking for work, then?”

“Could be.”

“Gerdur’s mill is always looking for extra hands, if you’re interested.”

Mog nodded, and rose up to his feet. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent! Sven’s drinking on the job, that pouncy s’wit. I could use your help today”

The elf, who introduced himself as Faendal, proved to be an excellent conversationalist, and more than comfortable compensating for Mog’s natural brusque demeanor. Gerdur, as Mog already knew, was Ralof’s sister, though he made sure not to mention any knowledge of her brother. She was definitely suspicious of him, presumably having seen him hanging around Hadvar’s family, and sharing Ralof’s dislike of Imperial sympathies. Nevertheless, she agreed to pay him a fair wage with the promise steady work, should he want it.

After merely an hour of working alongside Faendal, Mog became privy to pretty much every aspect of the elf’s day-to-day life, including his rivalry between the aforementioned Sven for the hand of a local girl. Mog had no real interest in the fluctuating dynamics of said love triangle, but Faendal’s idle chatter helped pass the time. Trying to be friendly, Mog had made the mistake of inquiring as to exactly who this Sven fellow was and what wrongs he had done to earn such ire.

"He's a bard, so he says,” scoffed the elf. “Occasionally he finds time to do his job here at the mill. Thinks his ballads and sonnets are going to convince Camilla Valerius to marry him.”

Mog grunted in feigned interest, instantly regretting ever having asked..

 “As if she would say 'yes.' An intelligent, beautiful woman like her wouldn't fall for that nonsense…” Faendal looked thoughtful for a moment, “I hope."

“You ‘hope’? Don’t sound so sure to me…” Mog rolled his eyes and continued chopping logs into more manageable sections.

“I’ve been thinking…”  _ (Oh no, this couldn’t be good.) _ “Maybe Camilla needs a little help seeing Sven for what he is. Could you… could you give her this letter and say it’s from Sven?” Faendal pulled a folded bit of parchment from within his tunic. The paper was slightly damp from sweat, but it appeared the ink hadn’t run too much. “I think I’ve matched that Nord’s lack of cleverness perfectly.”

“Um,” Mog looked at the proffered letter dumbly.

“You don’t have to do it now, of course! You’d be best to do it when I’m not around, anyways.”

“Okay…”

“Just tell me as soon as you’ve given Camilla the letter. I can’t wait to see Sven’s stupid face!”

“Mm-hm.”

“And besides, I think we’ve done more than enough work for one day.” He set down his axe, leaning it on its head against a chopping block. “Come, join me for an ale at the Sleeping Giant, it’s the least I can do for my new friend!”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Donna said, between sips of her spiced wine. “You and this Faendal guy both like the same chick, eh?”

Sven nodded ruefully, “Faendal thinks he can woo Camilla Valerius away from me. She’s already mine, I keep telling him.”

“Sven, bud, you can’t ‘own’ women,” she narrowed her eyes at him, unimpressed with his implication.

Nonplussed, the young bard continued, “Camilla Valerius knows I’m the best man in Riverwood. That elf is kidding himself if he thinks she would choose him over me!”

“Calm down, Sven. People are starting to stare.”

“I’ve seen him sneaking over to the Riverwood Trader to speak with her when I’m not around. He’s wasting his time.”

_ Ugh. Men! _ Unsure how else to contribute, Donna tried, “He sounds more persistent than a Leaf’s fan at a playoff game. Why not do something about it instead of mooning over here like a jealous idiot?”

Sven didn’t have the slightest clue what a ‘leaf’s fan’ (some sort of tree, perhaps a fern?), nor what sort of game a ‘playoff’ was, but he was getting into his cups and just agreed with her strange analogy enthusiastically. “You’re right!”

“Of course I’m right, bud! Women are always right,” she winked. “And don’t you forget it, blondie!”

“But maybe…what if Camilla sees him only as a friend?”

“They hang out all the time, you said so yourself, right?”

“Well, yes…”

“And too people spending time together  _ never  _ blossoms into romance,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got  _ nothing  _ to worry about, eh bud?”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Duh.”

“Pfft. I’ve heard better wisecracks from Orgnar!”

“Oh shove it, lute-boy! He ain’t got nothing on me.”

“Still,” Sven tipped his tankard towards Donna, “You do have a point.”

“Again, duh.”

“Camilla letting Faendal visit her isn't a good thing for me.”

“Damn straight!”

“I have an excellent idea!”

“Woo! Yah boy-ee!”

“I’m going to write a particularly venomous letter for Camilla…”

“Wait, what th―”

“And say it’s from Faendal!”

Donna gave him a perturbed look, brows shooting to her hairline.

“Yes! That should be enough to get Camilla to stop hanging around that elf!”

“Oh lordy.”

“And you!” Sven pulled Donna into a sloppy side-hug, ale sloshing dangerously in his hand.  _ “You _ will deliver it to her for me!”

“...”

The blond man beamed at her.

“Jesus-titty-fucking-Christ. Really Sven, really?”

“She’ll never speak to him again! Haha! Camilla will be mine!”

_ Well tits. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I love Faendal, even though his is a manipulative git, he at least doesn’t live with a mother that he treats like an unwanted burden, like _some_ people. (Looking at you, Sven!)
> 
> As for mah poor wee Moggy, I felt so bad for breaking his knife. Don’t worry, baby boy, things will get better...eventually.
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	16. In which there is some wooing.

_ Smoke.  _

_ Smoke.  _

_ SMOKE!  _

_ I need a motherfucking smoke! _

Recent events had left her feeling frazzled, and her nerves were shot. Somehow, she had found herself agreeing to help out Sven with some dumbass love-letter ploy to win over the girl―sorry,  _ woman _ ―of his dreams. To make matters worse, Sven was currently not speaking to her, because for whatever reason when his boss had asked her to accompany him in his performance that coming night, the stupid git had buggered off in a huff.  _ Let’s not even mention the fact that I’m stuck in this bass-ackwards world with magic and crazy-dragon shit.  _

_ FUCK! Why the hell haven’t cigarettes been invented yet? Useless pseudo-medieval world with its lack of basic necessities like tobacco and wifi. Honestly! How do these people even survive!? _

Donna was back again at the Sleeping Giant Inn, tucked away in a corner with a bottle of sweet wine. Delphine had promised her that she could drink her fill, so long as she performed that evening.  _ Look’s like I’m trading one vice for another, _ sighed Donna as she took another swig directly from the round-bellied green bottle.  _ At least when I’m drinking, it keeps the shakes away. Though the hangovers are probably going to be worse than the ones from nicotine withdrawal. Dios, how is this my life? _

So completely preoccupied with her internal angsting, Donna was totally unaware of the two figures who came up behind her. That is, until one of them grabbed at her shoulder with a heavy, gloved hand.

_ What the…? _

“Hey, Harknir!” Exclaimed a gruff voice to her back. “Look at this little mouse, hiding away in her little nest.”

_ Oh fuck no. _

“This little mouse looks thirsty, Bjorn,” a gauntleted arm reached out and grabbed her now-empty wine bottle, giving it a shake. “We should get her a pint of ale!”

_ Think. Think. Think! _

“Oh, uh, no thanks! My, er… my husband! Yes, my husband will be here… any moment now!” Donna turned to scan the room, looking for her imaginary spouse.

“Heh, she’s pretty cute for a mouse,” the man to her left cooed at her, looking every inch the unscrupulous vagabond she had dreaded him to be. 

“How old are you anyway, girly?” The man who’d grabbed her leered down at her, face full of unkempt facial hair and too-few yellow teeth. “You live around here?”

“Back off, asshole,” she sprang to her feet, knocking her seat to the ground. “Leave me alone!”

The man holding her bottle replaced it, leaning in way too closely as he did. “You see, Bjorn? That eyesore you call a beard scares all the lasses,” Harknir  _ (that’s what the other one called him?) _ laughed.

Bjorn joined his companion in getting all up in Donna’s business. His gloved hand daring to come up and stroke along her jaw. “Hah!” She could smell his breath now, and extremely late-stage halitosis couldn't even  _ begin  _ to describe the stench. “I like ‘em even better when they’re scared.”

_ This is not happening. This is NOT happening. _

Donna’s brown eyes rolled wildly, desperately scanning the room, trying to find somebody, anybody nearby to help her. At the far side of the tavern, she could see Orgnar daydreaming at the bar, oblivious to the frightening situation she found herself in. 

_ Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. _

With all the speed and grace of a thundering mammoth (which apparently still somehow existed in this bizarro world), Donna barreled through the pair of ruffians, making a beeline for the door. She vaulted the fire pit in such a manner that her elementary track and field teacher would have wept with joy at the sight, intent on putting as much distance between herself and the creepy men as humanly possible. Only when she was safely outside, leaning heavily against the back wall on the inn, did she dare let her guard down and draw a breath.

By Tim’s Tawny Timbits, did she ever need a fucking smoke.

“Priestess?”

_ I know that voice... _

“Priestess…? Donna?”

“Rozak Mog?”

The large orc-man nodded down at her. At his side, stood what could only be described as an elf. Silky, ash blond hair was pulled back from his angular face in a high ponytail, revealing a closely shaved nape and two large, pointy ears. 

_ Well fuck me sideways, they’ve got elves here too. _

“Priestess?” The elf cocked his head, one ear twitching as a fly buzzed past.

“Aye,” Mog nodded his head, long black hair looking all-the-more majestic now that it was clean and free of tangles.

_ So pretty…  _ Donna was in awe of the orc’s hair.  _ He looks like a shampoo commercial. _ It fell in soft, dark waves almost to the middle of his back. She felt her stomach do a funny little flip. She had always loved men with long, pretty hair, but this was just ridiculous! She couldn’t help but imagine winding her fingers through it, brushing out the knots and winding the ebony strands into small braids. Maybe he’d even let her weave some flowers into it…  _ Oh. They’re still talking. To me. Crap.  _ “You’re looking well…” _ Dios strike me down, I sound like an idiot! _

“You’re smoking,” Mog frowned.

“Smoking―? Where? I haven’t had a smoke in  _ forever!” _

“No miss,” said the elf, pointing at the ragged hem of her skirt. “You appear to be...on fire?”

“Oh ya…”  _ Play it cool, Donna! _ “That. If you’ll just excuse me a moment, my gentledudes…” She bolted through the door of the bathhouse, praying that she wasn’t about to get an eyeful of a naked stranger. 

Smoldering dress crisis now safely averted, she rejoined Mog and his elf-friend once more.  _ Good one, Donna. Real smooth.  _ “Sorry! What’d I miss? Oh shit! I didn’t even introduce myself to your friend there, Moggo!”  _ Moggo? Nice, real slick there, ace…  _ “Name’s Donna. Donna King.”

The elf’s ears flushed pink at her brazen cussing, but he shook her hand nevertheless. “Ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you, priestess King, I’m Faendal, formerly of Valenwood.”

“Just Donna’s fine, thanks… Oh!  _ You’re _ Faendal!”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” he said, hesitating momentarily, before giving her a slight bow. “And just how have you come to hear of me?”

“Er, just around the tavern,” she gestured vaguely back at the inn. “You know how, uh, Orgnar likes to gossip...” She brought her attention back to Mog, who had been standing idly by with a slightly bemused expression on his face.  _ Tusks. I almost forgot about those. Yikes. _

“Wait, Rozak Mog, you said you had met her at Helgen?”

Mog nodded.

“Helgen that was just ransacked by a dragon, Helgen?”

Again, Mog nodded.

“THAT Helgen!? How in Y’ffre’s name did you manage to survive?” He looked between the two of them, sheer bewilderment stamped all over his face.

Looking to Mog, Donna quirked her lips slightly, “You wanna tell him, or should I?” She laughed at the orc’s obvious discomfort at the idea of so much talking, so she began to tell Faendal the tale, making sure to gloss over any details involving Ralof or Hadvar’s brief return to Riverwood.  _ Not much of a talker, that one. Still, we could get used to the strong, silent type… (Shush, libido! Vete, vete!) _

* * *

 

About halfway through her thrilling regalement of the abridged Helgen Incident ™,  Donna had to excuse herself, spotting Sven’s blond head ducking around the side of the Riverwood Trader. Promising Faendal a more in depth retelling after her performance that evening, she hustled down the dirt road after the sulking bard.

She managed to catch him just as he crossed his yard, pleading with him to let her explain.

“I saw you talking to Faendal and that, that orc!” Sven was upset, and it showed in the quivering of his bottom lip. “Bet you told them everything, huh? Laughing about me behind my back?”

“Bu―”

“First you take my job, and now you’re helping  _ him  _ take Camilla away from me!”

Unsure of what else to do, Donna slapped him.

Hard.

_ Owie… _ she shook her hand, wincing.  _ Sharp cheekbones on that boy. _ “Sven, you beautiful blond idiot, would you just listen, for like one second? For fuck’s sake, I didn’t take your job, we’re supposed to play _ together,” _ she emphasized the word, “And as for Faendal? Screw that guy, eh! You were  _ my  _ friend first, bud, and even though I think your whole Camilla-obsession is absolutely bonkers, I already agreed to help you. You!” she jabbed him sharply in the chest with a pudgy finger. “¡Dios mío!”

“I...you… We’re… friends?”

“Duh,”she gave him an encouraging smile, “I’ve had my fingers all up in your  _ lute, _ after all.” Sven turned a rather unattractive shade of tomato as she gave him a salacious wink. “Now then, we’ve got a gig, Sven me laddo! Hi ho, Silver! Away we go!” Donna slid her arm around Sven’s own, firmly grasping his elbow and tugged him along.

Despite her smaller stature and woefully lacking upper body strength, Donna managed to drag the bard off to the Sleeping Giant, only releasing him when they realized that he hadn’t grabbed his instruments from home first. One quick detour later, and they were bounding up the steps to the inn. Well, Donna was bounding, Sven was still a bit sore about getting dressed down by the shorter woman. 

_ Friends, though, _ he quirked his lips,  _ she said we were friends. _

“You coming, Sven?”

He nodded and they entered the inn.

Somewhere between Donna’s mad dash for freedom and her slightly less harried return, several more patrons had arrived, filling up a few of the rough wooden tables and drawing simple chairs around the roaring hearth. She made sure to send a rather nasty look at the two fuckboys from earlier, sticking her tongue out childishly as they recognized her, with a man at her side.

Leaning up to Sven’s ear, she whispered, “If either of those two louts over there ask, you’re my husband.”

Sven’s brows shot up to his hairline, cheeks reddening, “Well...uh, I…”

“Fine!” she hissed, “You’re my brother, then.”

He gave her a small nod, but still looked extremely confused and uncomfortable.

“Sven, Donna,” Delphine approached them, holding a tray of frothing mugs. “You’re just the people I wanted to see.”

“Ah, Delphine,” Sven bowed. “You look ravishing this evening, my lady.”

Sounded to Donna like someone was trying to lay it on thick. Contrasting Sven’s overthetop brown-nosing, she gave the older woman an acknowledging jerk of her chin. She was confused by her friend’s sudden subservient flattery, maybe she hadn’t been the only one on his case today?

“We need to talk…” said Delphine flatly.

“Here we go…” Sven’s tone switched suddenly to impudence.

“It’s about your singing,” the innkeeper began, resting the laden drink tray against her hip. “Well, not your singing, your songs. But you know what I'm talking about.”

Donna looked between the two, questioningly.

Sven rolled his eyes, “You do realize these simpletons wouldn't know real music if it bit them in the britches, hmm?”

Delphine gave him a hard look. 

“Very well,” he sighed. “Your wish is my command.”

“Wonderful. Any time you feel like starting up, feel free. Donna,” she turned to the shorter woman. “Please, sing your songs, the  _ variety,” _ Donna didn’t miss the glare Sven directed at the woman. “Is most appreciated.”

With a swish of her skirts, Delphine returned her tray to its former position and resumed tending to her patrons. Donna made a face as she left, side-stepping Sven to avoid the accusatory look she knew he gave her. Hey, if Delphine wanted more variety, Donna had a virtually astronomical amount of songs in her mental tracklist, all thanks to two decades of ‘it’s not a phase, mom!’ phases.

“How do you want to do this?” she asked Sven, once they had settled in their designated spot by the fire.

“Guess you should take the lead,” Donna knew how much it pained him to say that. “At least for now. Once I learn more of your music, we can take turns.”

“Sounds good to me, bud.” Nodding, she picked up Sven’s lute. The bard grabbed his drum from beneath his seat, placing it between his thighs and giving it a couple practice thumps.

No one in particular seemed to be paying them much heed, but Donna picked out Mog and Faendal hunched over the bar with Orgnar and felt reassured that at least someone would probably enjoy their performance…she hoped, anyways.

“Ysmir’s beard!” Sven gasped. “She’s here... Camilla.”

Following his gaze, Donna finally saw the object of his, Faendal’s  _ (and probably half the fucking town’s) _ affections. And boy, were they not misplaced. No siree.

Camilla Valerius, was, in a word: gorgeous.

Her angelic, heart-shaped faced was framed by strands of soft, black hair, pulled back in an elaborate looping braids into a twisted bun. Her olive skin was practically glowing in the firelight, cheeks rouged just so, accenting high cheekbones and contrasting with her kohl-darkened, hazel eyes. Plush, red lips pouting slightly as she spoke to her companion―by his colourings alone, Donna knew he must be a brother or close relative. She felt a fluttering in her chest as she accidentally made eye-contact with the beautiful woman, blushing fiercely as she pulled her eyes away from the heavenly vision seated just across the room.

_ Damn. _

* * *

 

Donna and Sven were between sets, the latter pining away after the attractive Camilla across the room, while the former braved the growing crowd of people to fetch them some drinks. It was thirsty work, singing, and Donna hadn’t performed like this since her pop-star phase when she was twelve.  _ And let’s pray none of these folk here  _ **_ever_ ** _ find out about that particular embarrassment.  _ They had wrapped up their last set with a rousing duet of ‘Sarah’, which was met with much applause. She felt guilty, especially when she compared the praise with the feeble clapping after one of Sven’s less-than-satisfactory tunes, something about creeping and leaping that he’d disclosed to her he’d gleaned from an orsimeri student at the Bardic College in Solitude.

_ There it is again, Solitude. Must be a place after all.  _ Such a horrible name, though. That being said, the province Newfoundland had a town called Dildo for Chrissakes, so it wasn’t that bad a name, in comparison. _ Now, a College for Bards, that sounded far more interesting. _ Sure, she’d done her time in post-secondary, but she had all but abandoned the vocation of her former education when Gerdur had helpfully pointed out that no one in all of Skyrim would ever give her a dime (septim, rather) for something as useless as interior design suggestions, no matter how important Donna insisted ‘ _ feng shui’ _ was.

Half a bottle of spiced wine for Donna, and a couple pints for Sven later, they brought out the instruments once more and settled back in position, getting ready to play once more. As they did, Donna had a thought. And like many thoughts that occur when one has been drinking, it was foolhardy at best.

“You are trying to woo the woman, right bud?” Donna nodded towards Camilla.

“Well, I uh,” Sven blustered. “Of course I am!”

She gave Sven a pointed look.

“You’ve been sulking away over your drum all night, bud. Don’t you want to show off, just a little? Aren’t you trying to prove yourself over that elf-guy?” she jerked her thumb at the bar, where Mog and Faendal sat, appearing to be in deep conversation with Orgnar. “He hasn’t made a move yet, either, but he will Svenny, he will.”

Sven gulped nervously. “What can I do, then?” he squawked at her, forgetting himself. “I mean, uh,” he deepened his voice, eyes darting nervously to see if Camilla or his rival had noticed his outburst. They hadn’t. “Some day Camilla will know of my affections!”

“Seriously, you’re just gonna wait around until she clues in? Ugh. MEN.” Donna slouched and shook her head, before suddenly straightening. “Here, give me that!” Her deep brown eyes shone with mischief.

“What the―Hey!” She snatched the lute from Sven. 

“Let me show you how to pick up chicks, dumbass.”

Rising to her feet she gave the lute a few experimental plucks and adjusted the tuning pegs, before clearing her throat loudly to gain attention from the gathered patrons. Sven sat behind her, fretting with his nails and glancing towards Camilla as his strange new friend began to play the opening chords of a song. At first, he thought it merely instrumental, but Donna’s strumming began to build in a curious manner.

And then she began to sing, her voice sounding raspy and slightly warbling at times, but the music, like nearly everything else she had sung that evening, was unlike anything he had ever heard before.

_      I wish I could do better by you _ __   
_     'Cause that's what you deserve _ __   
_     You sacrifice so much of your life _ _   
_ __     In order for this to work

The inn grew silent, conversations dropped as all eyes and ears were drawn to the singing woman.

_      While I'm off chasing my own dreams _ __   
_     Sailing around the world _ __   
_     Please, know that I'm yours to keep _ _   
_ __     My beautiful girl

Donna was now looking directly across the fire at Camilla, giving her a rakish grin as she finished the line. Winking saucily, she continued:

_      When you cry a piece of my heart dies _ __   
_     Knowing that I may have been the cause _ __   
_     If you were to leave, fulfill someone else's dreams _ _   
_ __     I think I might totally be lost

Not a sound could be heard besides the crackling of the hearth and the woman’s unconventional ballad. Sven could only watch in disbelief as Camilla blushed back, crimson spreading across her cheeks as she watched Donna with rapt attention. Noticing his eyes on his baby sister, Camilla’s brother scowled across the room at Sven, assuming him the culprit.

_      You don't ask for no diamond rings _ __   
_     No delicate string of pearls _ __   
_     That's why I wrote this song to sing _ _   
_ __     My beautiful girl

With a theatrical flourish, Donna swept into a bow before dropping the lute onto the lap of a rather dumbfounded Sven and returned to her seat beside him. She helped herself to his mug of ale, fighting a grimace as she swallowed several mouthfuls of the bitter brew.

“And that, bud, is how you impress a lady.” Donna patted Sven’s shoulder as Camilla began to walk their way, her ample bosom swaying in her low cut yellow dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: A very conspicuous nod to ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ in this one. The movie, not the book (though I adore both!), specifically the scene where Sophie is accosted by a pair of soldiers in a back alleyway. Originally I was going to have someone swoop in and save Donna from the lecherous ne’er-do-wells, but to quote a notable philosopher, swooping is bad. I mean, she is a coward, but our Donna is an independent, headstrong coward from the 21st century, goddammit!
> 
> As for my own personal choice in the Sven/Faendal quest debacle, I choose Camilla, hands-down. I wish she could be a follower, it would be way more fun than having whiny lute-boy or the lumberjack Legolas for company. She's got a head for business, too, so she would be more than capable of sorting and selling off all my hoarded loot ;D
> 
> Lyrics for the song, ‘The Girl’ are by City and Colour.
> 
> **Translations with DungeonCruller**  
>  Dios = God  
> Vete = go away (spanish)  
> By Tim’s Tawny Timbits = an exclamatory expression, referring, of course, to the Tim Horton’s coffee franchise, specifically timbits, which I have been told the people of Canada’s pantsland (aka America) wrongly call ‘donut-holes’ or some such nonsense.
> 
>  2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.
> 
>  
> 
> _I posted this from my phone, en route to a concert, so fingers crossed it works properly! BTW, Gloryhammer is an amazing band, I love them and am totally jazzed to finally see them play!!! :D_


	17. In which there is a lovely letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be confused, old readers, I went back and smooshed some earlier chapters together! You haven't gone crazy (although I might have...)
> 
> Thanks again to all of you fantastic little crullers out there who've commented or given kudos. Nothing makes my day more than getting feedback from you fine folks :D  
> xoxo  
> DungeonCruller

“Here,” Mog was startled from his thoughts by Faendal jabbing something into his elbow. “I think I’ve finally got it finished. Tell me what you think.” The wood elf turned back and asked Orgnar for another pint, leaving the orc with a scrubby piece of scrap parchment in his lap. It looked like Faendal had just torn off a label from a bottle of mead and scribbled something on its reverse. Squinting down at the paper, Mog was surprised to find that he could actually  _ read  _ what it said, albeit poorly given the dim lighting.

> _ My Dearest Camilla, _ _   
>  _ _ I yearn to have you as my own, _ _   
>  _ _ Washing my linens, _ _   
>  _ _ And my fine blond hair, _ _   
>  _ _ To cook my dinner from my stove, _ _   
>  _ __ And tend to my house while I wander.
> 
> _ Yours Truly, _ _   
>  _ _ Sven _

“Well?” Faendal burped. “What do you think?”

Mog had convinced his friend to re-write his previous letter, hoping to put off holding up his end of their agreement in its delivery, citing it not being nearly believable enough (though Mog hadn’t bothered to read the original, unsure if he even possessed the ability to read it). Faendal had bought his flimsy lie, and they had spent a good portion of the evening concocting the nonsense Mog now held… Well, Faendal had done the ‘concocting’, Mog had just nodded and drank the mead Faendal had bought him. 

“S’good,” grunted Mog.

“Yes, but will it finally convince Camilla to stay away from that,” the elf waved towards Sven with his mug, “Bumbling Nord blowhard?”

“Hey!” Orgnar cried with feigned indignance.

“Sorry, Orgnar!” Faendal flashed him a sharp-toothed grin. “I meant, bumbling  _ bard  _ blowhard!”

The three of them shared a hearty laugh, before returning to Faendal’s plotting.

_ “You play so well…” _

Even across the busy inn, Mog’s sharp ears could pick out the conversation between the performers and the woman, Camilla. Judging by the sour expression on his face and the turning of his large ears, Faendal could as well. Mog grunted sympathetically, though what exactly he was supposed to be sympathetic towards, he couldn’t say. Some sort of masculine solidarity? He knew of the rivalry between the bard and his new elf friend, but what did Donna have to do with any of it?

Mog had to admit, even with his limited musical experience, the priestess was talented; and decidedly more so than the blond-haired Sven. Sure, the lad could play and sing well enough, but his performance seemed lacking, his songs repetitive and common. Donna, with her outlandish melodies and husky timbre, stood in stark contrast.

And now, as he sat at the bar, drinking thick honeyed mead beside Faendal, with Orgnar mumbling something to them about ‘love-triangles’ and ‘skeever liver’ behind him, Mog felt a pang of…of  _ something  _ at the sight of the lovely Camilla Valerius leaning casually against Donna’s chair. The darker-haired woman was twirling her fingers through a few fallen locks of her thick, black hair, and appeared to be smiling and laughing at something Donna had said. A quick side-eye to Faendal revealed an even more pissy scowl on the elf’s pointed face.

_ “You’re not from around here. That makes two of us…” _

Faendal was fuming beside him, and Mog could tell that across the room Sven was similarly displeased; Camilla was completely enraptured by the strange priestess and was seemingly oblivious to the attention of either of her admirers. Something was uttered between Donna and Sven, resulting in a wounded look from the latter, though he still must have obeyed her request, because no sooner had the pair of women risen to their feet, did he start to play a lively tune on his lute. Wistfully, Mog took another pull from his tankard and watched the women dance, skirts twirling and eyes flashing with amusement in the roaring light of the hearthfire. A few others rose to join in, but Mog had eyes only for the pair.

“Little mouse knows how to dance,” commented a large, bearded Nord as he stumbled up to the bar.

“Ain’t she, though?” slurred his equally burly companion, who was in the process of flagging down Orgnar with a wave of his empty bottle. “Pair o’ mice at that.”

“Mouses, not mice, ya ignoramush.” The bearded man thumped him over his head. “Yous an unedumacated git, Harknir!”

Both men looked sternly at each other, before loudly guffawing, the man called Harknir hanging off the edge of the bar as he hooted with laughter. Orgnar was quick to dispense their drinks, accepting a small handful of coin in return. Giving one a small bite, Orgnar was most unimpressed when it bent against his teeth. “Hey!” The imposing bartender straightened, grabbing both men by the shoulder as they made to leave. “Still gotta pay for that, you louts.”

“Bjorn, ya heard ‘im,” mumbled Harknir. “Pay ‘im proper.”

The bearded Bjorn made a show of rummaging for his coin purse, which hung conspicuously on his belt. With a flurry of movement contradicting his apparent drunken state, Bjorn rounded on Orgnar, delivering a solid fist to his stubbled jaw. Reeling, Orgnar stumbled backwards in the side of the bar, knocking over a few bottles of mead and a wheel of cheese as he did.

From across the room, Delphine could be heard shouting, “Hey! What’s going on over there?”

“Got it!” Orgnar roared back, cracking his knuckles as he advanced on the disreputable men.

“FIGHT!” cried Faendal, launching himself from his stool and throwing himself into the fray.

“Lookee here, Harknir,” spat Bjorn. “Looks like we got ourselves a hero.”

“Go ahead, try an’ fight back!” Harknir had Faendal in a headlock now, delivering blow after blow to his unprotected stomach as the elf struggled to free himself. Meanwhile, Orgnar was wailing on Bjorn, fist flying.

Sighing, Mog finished his mead and set the tankard down on the bartop. Cracking his neck, he grabbed Harknir bodily and hurled the repugnant man across the room, freeing Faendal in the process. With a resounding CRACK, Harknir struck one of the inn’s supporting timbers, sinking to the ground in a crumpled heap. One down, and one to go, he made for the remaining brawler. Grabbing Bjorn by the end of his bristly beard, he dragged the man to his feet. 

“Whatcha gonna do? Huh?” Bjorn spat out a glob of blood into his face, along with a yellowed tooth. “Whatcha gonna do?”

Scowling down at the belligerent man, Mog gave him a headbutt he was sure to feel well into next week. Dropping the now-unconscious reprobate, the orc returned to his seat, helping himself to the nearest bottle. Pulling out the cork with his teeth, Mog took a few hearty swigs. 

“I guess that takes care of that, huh?” Faendal crawled back up onto his own seat at the bar, grinning broadly at the orc with an already blackening eye. Mog gave him a small toast with his bottle, mouth quirking in humour. That is, until he spotted a rather irate Delphine making her way towards them, Faendal sinking back against the bar, bracing himself for their impending reprimand. “Here we go…”

“You!” she pointed accusingly at them, brows furrowed. “You’re disturbing my other customers!” She gestured widely about the room, as if indicating that, yes, there were in fact other folk in the inn that night. “I’ll look the other way this time, but don’t try my patience. And you’d better pay for that, orc,” she nodded towards the bottle in Mog’s hand. “Now, let’s pretend this never happened.”

Orgnar dragged himself up from behind the bar, bloody knuckles grasping the edge. Spying his pissed off boss, he made to duck back down, only to be stopped by Delphine’s angry growl.

“Gods above, Orgnar! Was this really necessary?” Before he could reply, she cut him off. “How many times do I have to tell you? No fighting in my bloody inn! Gods above!” Orgnar stared down at the bartop, looking every inch a scolded child. “There’s nothing for it, I guess. Clean up this… this mess,” she waved at the two insentient men before storming off.

“What’s her problem?” Mog glanced at Orgnar, quizzically.

“Don’t look at me,” Orgnar replied sorely, “I’m just the help.” With what could only be described as practiced ease, the bartender hauled up one man on either shoulder and heading to the door. “Faendal, watch the bar a moment, will ya? Gotta take out some trash...”

 

* * *

 

Donna felt unconscionably guilty as she sat across from Camilla Valerius, trying to act casual as she sipped her spiced wine from a tin mug. Sven had taken over performing in her absence, playing bitter songs about revenge and betrayal. Camilla, for her part, was acting completely oblivious to her admirer’s stinging pride, contentedly sharing Donna’s company while Ragnar the Red started up for the umpteenth time.

“So…” began Donna, fidgeting with a knot in the wooden tabletop.

“I must say, your singing is impressive,” Camilla smiled, and Donna felt her insides melt into a puddle of goo. “Did you train at the Bards College, like Sven?”

“Well, uh… no? I mean, I’ve heard a bit about it, but I’ve never had the pleasure of going there. Myself. To the college, that is. Yup” Donna took a big mouthful of her wine, hoping to stymie the flow of nonsensical babbling issuing forth from her stupid mouth.

“Well, there’s a whole school up in Solitude where they teach the arts. Song. Lute-playing. Poetry… Oh my, look over there!”

Following Camilla’s extended finger, Donna was surprised to see some sort of fight happening by the bar. It brought on a rather satisfying feeling of karmic justice when she identified the losing parties as none other than the creepy guys who had accosted her earlier.  _ Serves them right, bloody wankers. _ When one of the offensive men went sailing into a nearby pillar, she was shocked to see that it was none other than the orc-man, Rozak Mog, who had thrown him.  _ Holy fuck!  _ And was that Orgnar and Faendal over there smashing the other guy’s face in?  _ Sweet. I’m gonna bake them all a bloody cake or something, those beautiful bastards. _

“Er… Donna?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry Camilla,” she gave her a sheepish grin.

“I said, he sure knows how to throw a punch.”

“Who, Mog?”

“Mog? Who’s that, the orc?” she gave Donna a knowing smirk. “No, I meant Faendal.”

Ignoring Camilla’s unspoken implication, Donna saw an opportunity and took it. “You mean  _ Faendal? _ The short dude with pointy ears?”

“Whatever do you mean, Donna?”

“Just that, uh, well he’s… Here.” Donna handed Camilla a folded piece of parchment. “I have a letter from… from Faendal,” she paused, “For you?”

“A letter from Faendal? That’s strange. He’s never written to me before.”

Amused, Camilla took it, unfolding the paper with careful hands and began to read Sven’s forged letter from Faendal:

> _ Dear Camilla, _
> 
> _ I know I have called upon you at your house many times, and while we may be growing close, I need you to put any desires you may have for me aside. I am a true-born son of Valenwood, and I could never befoul my bloodline by courting an Imperial. I hope we can remain true friends, provided you understand your people's place in the Aldmeri Dominion, and respect me as such. _
> 
> _ Sincerely, Faendal _

Seeing such a disheartened look on Camilla’s beautiful face gave Donna pause,  _ Was this really the right thing to do? _ She scanned the room for Sven, who was watching them with the intensity of a hawk. Giving him a hesitant thumbs up, which was met with an equally hesitant smile, Donna returned to her companion.

“Is this what he really thinks about me?”

“I… Well you see―”

“Well you can tell that… that long-eared ass not to come around the store anymore.” If looks could kill, the wood elf at the bar would be no less than six-feet under. “He’s not welcome.”

“Wait!” Donna backpedaled, grabbing one of Camilla’s hands as she tried to rise.  _ So soft… _ “I’m not sure if it really is from Faendal!”

Camilla gave her a curious look.

_ What are you doing, Donna? _ “I… Well I uh, I found it! Yah, I found it in the, uh, bathhouse!” 

“So it…it might not be from Faendal?” Camilla pouted, and it took all of Donna’s (limited) willpower not to reach across the table and kiss that frown off those plush red lips.

“So what you’re saying is that someone might have wanted me to think Faendal wrote this nasty letter?”

Donna nodded glumly.

“What a horrible thing to do! Why, if I ever find out who did this…”

It was then that both women realized that they still held hands. Donna made to pull away, but Camilla stopped her, dragged her thumb softly across her knuckles. Ducking her head and blushing harder than a nun at a strip club, Donna peered at Sven out of the corner of her eye.  _ Oh shit, shit, SHIT! _ He was not impressed.  _ There goes my only friend… _

“Would you like to come over for some tea?” Camilla gave her a heated glance from beneath a pair of long black lashes. “It is getting rather…crowded in here.”

Gulping nervously, Donna joined the dark-haired woman as she rose from the table. “I’ll meet you by the door, just need a quick word with my brother over there,” she nodded towards a sour-faced man with a goatee. Donna stood by the door for about three seconds before Sven marched over to her, blue eyes glittering dangerously and fists clenched tightly at his sides. 

“What. Are. You. Doing?” he hissed.

“...”

“This better not be what it looks like, or I’ll―”

“Good evening, Sven,” Camilla gave him a small curtsy, flashing him one of her dazzling smiles. “You played beautifully tonight, you’re so talented.”

“Oh, uh… Thanks?” Sven’s blond brows uncrossed from their angry arch, settling over his softening eyes.

“I look forward to your next performance, come, Miss Donna, I’ll show you those  _ silks  _ I was mentioning, back at the shop.” Camilla gave her a subtle wink. Never one not to take an easy out, Donna gave Sven a small shrug and followed after Camilla, out the door and into the night.

Back at the bar, a pair of frowning grey eyes watched the pair of women as they left.

 

* * *

 

“Well one of us has to do something!”

Camilla’s voice pierced through Donna’s groggy haze. Groaning, she rolled over, draping an arm across her eyes to block out the sudden brightness of the waking world.

“I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!” a very masculine reply resounded from below the floorboards.  _ Camilla’s...brother? Wait, where the hell am I? _

With an unsurprising lack of grace, Donna flailed her way out of bed, landing with a WHUMP in a tangled heap of sheets and furs before scrambling to her feet. Swaying, she grimaced and grabbed her head.  _ Dios mío… Just how much did I drink last night? _ Resigning herself to a walk of shame, she― _ Sweet Batman! Why the ever-loving fuck am I naked!? _ A fumbled search beneath the bed frame turned up her dress and one slipper, which she pulled on hastily. The soft clatter of plastic as she yanked the gown overhead indicated the location of her glasses, which she promptly replaced securely on her nose. 

“Well, what are you going to do then, huh?” Camilla’s voice was raised in anger, echoing loudly in Donna’s hungover ears. “Let’s hear it!”

“We are done talking about this!” The man’s tone was resolute, as was his expression when Donna peeked at the arguing pair from between the balusters of the staircase.  “Oh, ahem.” A traitorous creaking of the steps gave away Donna’s position. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

Camilla turned to Donna, eyes softening slightly at the presence of the other woman, but otherwise remaining unchanged in her defiant posture. “Maybe you could talk some sense into my pig-headed brother.” She crossed her arms, shooting said brother a venomous glare.

“I don’t know what you may have overheard, but the Riverwood trader is still open! Feel free to...to shop.”

Camilla snorted in a rather unbecoming manner. “Really Lucan,  _ shop? _ Why, after last night, I should be paying her for her services, not the other way around.” Donna flushed crimson as the dark-haired woman gave her a saucy wink, while Lucan mirrored her embarrassment on his own flustered face.

“Did we…” Donna squeaked. Clearing her throat, she tried again, “Did something happen?”

“Yes, we did have a bit of a… break-in,” admitted Lucan. “But we still have plenty to sell!” his insistence was followed by an almost audible eye roll from Camilla, who was now ushering a rather uncomfortable Donna to a small table laden with breakfast foods. “Seems like the robbers were only after one thing.”

Camilla let out a rather unlady-like snort, before busying herself with loading up Donna’s plate.

“Well, it sounds like―thanks Camilla, some tea would be, um...lovely?―it sounds like you were lucky then?”

“Not as lucky as I was last night!”

“Camilla!” sputtered Lucan, arguably the most red-faced man Donna had ever seen in her life.  _ Was that even healthy? Should we call someone? _

 After what had to be one of the top five most uncomfortable morning afters in the history of Donna’s admittedly limited sexual career  _ (Did we...do it? Oh no, Sven is gonna kill me!) _ she had finally managed to suss out exactly what had been taken from the siblings’ shop the night before. While she had been just up the stairs. Apparently sleeping with the shopkeeper’s sister.  _ Yikes. _

“It was an ornament, solid gold.”

“Sounds...fancy?” Donna demurely cut up a bit of tomato, trying not to think about how gross it was going to taste when she finally tried to eat it.  _ Blech. _

“Lucky, too.”

“According to you, Lucan,” Camilla speared a fried egg on her fork. “Not so lucky now, huh?” She waved it in her brother’s face, yolk dripping all over the table beneath it.

“Camilla, really?” Lucan wiped a stray bit of yolk off his goatee.

“What, ah…” Donna kept cutting the tomato slices smaller and smaller. Maybe she could slice them down to nothing and avoid the slimey ‘fruits’ entirely. “What did it look like?”

“It was about so big,” Lucan held his hands out, approximately a foot apart. “In the shape of a dragon’s claw.”

Donna blinked stupidly, her harrowing escape from the giant black dragon several days prior rushing back to the forefront of her mind. The siblings looked at her peculiarly, then Lucan disrupted her flashback with a clearing of his throat. “Hrm. Anyways, like I said, the Riverwood Trader is still open for business.”

“I… I could try to help you get the claw back.”

Lucan eyed her incredulously.  _ “You _ could?”

The kick Camilla delivered to his shinbone was probably discernible a few houses over.

“Yes, well… I’ve got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It’s yours if you bring my claw back. Now, if you’re going to get those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town...”

“So this is your plan, Lucan?” Camilla interrupted her brother, thin black brow arching skeptically.

“Yes,” he looked at his sister pointedly. “So now you don’t have to go, do you?”

“Oh really?” scowled Camilla, her breakfast all but forgotten now. “Well I think your new helper here needs a guide.”

“Wh- no… I…” Lucan stammered. “Oh, by the Eight, fine. But only to the edge of town!”

With a triumphant smirk, Camilla pushed back her plate and rose from the table. “Come on, Donna, this way.”

“Wait, what?” Donna wasn’t entirely sure what the hell had happened. “Now? We’re going  _ now!?” _

“Show those thieves not to steal from Lucan Valerius!” He ushered her out the door behind his sister. “The sooner you find that claw, the sooner our lives can get back to normal.”

“Oh fuck me sideways,” said Donna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, some of you may have noticed that I've gone back and restructured some chapters, combining them and generally just fucked around with things a bit. For you new readers, hi! Nothing to see here folks, nothing to see...  
> Hopefully I didn't mess anything up too badly (^__^' )
> 
> In other news, this week is quite possibly going to kill me. My best friend is getting married this weekend, and as her Maid of Honour™, my fate is intrinsically tied to the overall success of this coming Saturday.  
> ...and she's making me wear a pink dress. 
> 
> I beg of you, please send help!  
> (and sprinkle donuts!)
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details.


	18. In which an understanding is met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I apologise in advance, there might be a higher than normal amount of spelling mistakes in this chapter, I’m trying to type with tiny surfboards glued to my fingers, and it has not been easy. Once I get my butt to the nail salon and get these little bastards removed, I’ll get a revised version up asap. For now, please excuse the mess, and try to enjoy the update?
> 
> I guess this is why most sane people have betas…  
> Anyways, here we go folks! 
> 
> Thanks for your comments and kudos, you are all lovely and fantastic.

“We have to go through town and across the bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow. You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings.”

Mog was just leaving Alvor’s house as the two women walked by the front porch, Camilla leading a rather rumpled Donna along the cobbled road. The weight of Faendal’s letter in his breast pocket felt akin to that of the smith’s iron ingots, not the simple bit parchment he knew it was. Swallowing, he called out to the ladies:

“Hey, wait!”

The pair stopped short, Camilla eyeing him curiously while Donna seemed to cower behind the shorter woman. Bits and tufts of her unusual purple hair stuck out from beneath the kerchief she’d hastily tied around her head. Coupled with the sight of her wrinkled dress and mis-tied laces, Mog felt a sudden spike of irritation he couldn’t quite place. Dismissing it as a result of the previous night’s overindulgence, he made his was down the steps and towards the women.  

“Camilla, yes?” Mog feigned his inquiry, knowing full well who the dark-haired woman was. She seemed to relax slightly, while Donna scrubbed at her face with her hands, still ducked behind her companion as she tried to tidy her appearance. It was a fruitless endeavor, but Mog thought the act endearing, despite his strange feelings of annoyance.

“That is I, yes. Camilla Valerius, at your service, sir…?” She gave a small curtsy, smiling up at the tall orc with rosy cheeks and uncommonly straight, white teeth.

“Mog. Rozak Mog.”

“Good morning to you, then, Rozak Mog.”

“Aye, good morning.”

“And my friend, Donna King,” Camilla stepped aside, forcing Donna to straighten up and be included in their discourse. “I believe, you already have met?”

“Yes.” Mog and Donna chimed simultaneously.

It was Donna who understood the calculating look Camilla was giving them, so she hastened their departure from the orc’s presence. “Well, uh, Mog, we gotta run, you know how it is… Thieves to catch and golden doodads to find.”

“Yes, we have business to attend to, I am afraid,” the dark-haired woman agreed with her companion. “Good morning, Rozak Mog.”

“Wait! I have a, uh…” Mog retrieved the somewhat dogeared paper from his tunic. “A letter.”

“Oh?” Camilla raised a thin black brow and Donna looked curiously at the letter. “A letter? For...?”

“You,” he held out the folded parchment.

Taking the proffered letter, Camilla eyed the curling letters on the edge of the fold. “From…Sven?” She glanced up at Mog quizzically, but he only shrugged. Donna let out a soft gasp, barely audible to anyone but herself and Mog’s sharp ears. Odd. “Another poem, I’ll bet. He does know how to make a girl blush.” 

Mog gave her a noncommittal grunt in response, watching keenly as she began to read the forged letter. Behind her, Donna gave him a small frown.  _ Does...does she know? Or is she upset because her lov― No, Camilla has another supposed admirer?  _ He frowned back at her, trying to figure out what was going on in the girl’s mind.

“What’s this?” Camilla cried out in anger. “If that oaf thinks all I’m going to do is stay in that filthy house of his and clean, I’ll…” She crumpled the letter in her fist, hazel eyes burning with impotent rage as she glared up at its deliverer. “You can tell Sven that he already has a mother. I’m not speaking to him anymore.” With that, she turned on her heel and left.

“Camilla, hold on there, eh!” Donna took off after her, following the furious woman down the path.

_ That went well, _ scowled Mog as he watched them go, Camilla shaking with rage, and Donna trying to placate her emotional companion. Sighing to himself, he bowed his head and headed over to Gerdur’s mill for another day of mindless work. 

* * *

 

“It might be another, uh, fake letter?” Donna patted the weeping Camilla’s arm soothingly. They sat on a broad stump by the river, the barest amount of privacy offered by a nearby overgrown shrub. Donna could have done without the line of drying fish hanging nearby, whose stench was burning the inner hairs of her nostrils, but Camilla was distressed and Donna felt obligated to comfort her after their apparent night of carnal pleasures, and that apparently included her suffering through stinky fish. “You know, like the one I found from Faendal in the, uh, bathouse?” 

_ These lies are getting out of hand, _ thought Donna. It was patently obvious to her that while Sven had concocted a fake letter to Camilla from Faendal, the elf-man had done the exact same, forging a similar letter from Sven and gotten poor Mog involved much as she had been herself by the foolish bard.  _ What the fuck is wrong with these people? _

“But why?” wailed the despondent Camilla. “What have I ever done to deserve such a nasty prank?” She blew her nose loudly in a lacy handkerchief. “And if not, why would Sven and Faendal do such a horrid thing to each other?”

_ This is way out of my paygrade. _ “Men are idiots, simple as that,” shrugged Donna. “They both want you, so they think, enh, why not fuck up the other guy’s chances, eh?”

“What do you mean, they both  _ want  _ me?” Even weeping as she was, Camilla still managed to look unnaturally beautiful, red-rimmed eyes and all. “They are my  _ friends, _ nothing more.”

_ Ouch, double-friendzoned. Poor bastards. _ “Looks to me like they both want to be more than that. I mean honestly, look at yourself!” Donna gestured at Camilla, “You’re a fucking goddess, all pouty lips and pretty hair and shit! Of course they want you! Even I want you and I’m like eighty percent sure I’m mostly straight!”

Camilla blinked at her. Twice.

“Okay, fine… Sev―, sixty! Sixty percent straight!”

“Straight?”

“Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ…” Donna closed her eyes and fell back onto the stump, clearly defeated. (And seriously regretting the dramatic action as she felt something sharp dig into her shoulder. Ow.)

“Donna,” Camilla leaned back beside her, resting her weight on one elbow with her thick, black hair falling like a curtain. She hadn’t bound it up that morning in the confusion. “I must tell you something.”

“Oh?” She opened one eye, looking at the woman curiously.

“The break in last night…”

“Yes?” She opened her other eye, brows furrowing with concern.

“It was all my fault.”

“Wait, what?” Donna scrambled up to somewhat mirror Camilla’s position, leaning heavily on her own elbow and trying not to let the sight of Camilla’s excellent cleavage distract her from the topic at hand.  _ Stupid, sexy boobs. _ “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Last week, I met someone.”

“Yes…?”

“Someone new to town. He was so handsome, all tall, dark and mysterious! Yet he was so kind to me! And, well… I welcomed him to my bed, much as I did you…” Camilla eyed Donna nervously, and was relieved to find no malice in her brown eyes, just concern. “Afterwards, we shared a meal together by the fire, and he expressed interest in Lucan’s claw. So I told him about it, as much as I could, anyways. Lucan found the claw about a year after he opened the store, though he never quite explained where he got it. He’s a tricky one, my brother.”

“So… you think this guy came back for the claw...last night?”  _ Creepy, creepy, creepy. What is it with all these creepy men around here? Yuck. _

“Last night, well, yes. He came back, you see.”

Donna paled, uncomfortable where her mind was leading her. “And?”

“I really must apologize to you, this is really quite awkward, but, uh… Last night, after what I assure you was some of the most lovely er, love-making I have had with another woman in quite some time,” Camilla sighed, clearly very uncomfortable with the topic at hand. “Once you had fallen asleep, he...well, he came and called on me…”

“So…” Donna looked at her, uncertainly, “You slept with him, after me?”

“Yes?”

“He didn’t come near me, did he?” Donna was slightly panicked.  _ No. No. NO. _

“Oh! Of course not, we stayed downstairs, I assure you.” Camilla’s soft hand on Donna’s shoulder was comforting, but still, this whole situation was beyond awkward and well into what-the-fuck-ville. “It wasn’t until he left that I even noticed the claw was gone.”

“And you didn’t tell your brother this because?”

“Are you joking? He’d kill me!”

Donna laughed despite the seriousness of it all. Even in another world, some things never changed. Overprotective brothers with hang-ups about their sisters’ sexual proclivities apparently was beyond universal. Camilla joined in, her own laugh like the tinkling of a bell.  _ Of course, she even has a beautiful laugh! ¡Dios mío! Is there anything about this chick that isn’t fucking gorgeous?  _

An overlying feeling of calm washed over them, and the two women lay back on the stump, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead across the blue morning sky. Inwardly, Donna was a swirling maelstrom of emotional baggage, but she pushed it all back down, promising to deal with it when things finally settled.

If things settled.

_ Ha. _

“I wonder why he only stole Lucan’s golden claw.” Camilla pondered out loud. “I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin.”

Donna just shook her head, biting back a comment on what else he’d apparently taken from the Valerius’ store. She felt Camilla’s hand grab her own tentatively, and she wound their fingers together. Giving their hands a squeeze, Camilla brought them up to her lips and pressed a soft kiss on Donna’s knuckles, before letting them fall back once more.

“The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow.” Camilla sighed deeply, rising up from the stump. “I guess I should get back to my brother. He’ll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child… Mara bless you for agreeing to help us.”

“Camilla, I don’t think I’m the best choice for mountain-climbing or...or barrow-delving.”

“Oh,” the dark-haired woman looked down, visibly dejected.

“But,” Donna added with a mischievous smile. “I think I know a couple people who would be more than happy to help you.”

* * *

 

“So, I understand why  _ you  _ are here,” the elf nodded to Rozak Mog, who grunted in reply. “And I think I understand why  _ you  _ are here,” a shaggy goat gave him a baleful bleat as it toddled along the path. “But by Y’ffre’s hairy ballsack, what in Oblivion is  _ he  _ doing here?”

 “I could ask the same, elf,” spat Sven, shooting a hateful glare at Faendal, which was met by one of equally venomous intent.

_ Well I, for one, don’t have a bloody clue what I’m doing here, _ thought Mog.  _ Other than apparently trying to keep you lovesick runts away from each other’s throats. _

The sun had long since passed its zenith, slyly dancing in and out from behind soft white clouds as it traveled across the brilliant blue sky. Beneath their feet, the rambling cobbles of Riverwood’s streets had converged to a packed dirt path, winding its way up the southern side of the mountain. Through the course of their march, the lush greenery of the summer valley below had given way to the wintry snows of the Brittleshin range. The occasional tree still dotted along the path, though unlike their verdant cousins below, these pines were stunted in growth from the rocky soil and battered by the harsh winds of their loftier purchase.

Shrubs and brush, while abundant in the forests of Falkreath, were few and far between on the mountainside. The slender, arching branches of the snowberry bush were most prevalent, boughs weighed down with small clusters of red berries that stood out in stark contrast to their snow-covered leaves. Winter heath added another layer of colour to the otherwise desolate landscape, its green, needle-like leaves interspersed with small bell-shaped blooms of pale pinks and purples, peeking out from a frosting of powdery white. The occasional of mountain flower could still be found, though rare a sight amongst the rocks and small drifts that littered the mountainside.

Mog felt more at home now than he had in a very long time, enjoying the bracing sensation of the crisp mountain air as it entering his lungs. The slight burning sensation was bittersweet, but not unwelcome; it reminded him just how lucky he was to be alive and free, even if he was still so far from his own mountains. Adjusting his grip on the handle of his wood axe, he let out a happy sigh. Now, if only he could get his companions to cease their squabbling. Glancing back over his shoulder, he was just in time to see a rather cross-eyed goat bound between Sven and Faendal, who were trying to put to rest once and for all the truth behind the old adage, if looks could kill.  

_ Why, Malacath, why do you test me so? _

“How much farther do we have to walk?” Mog ears grated at the underlying whine in Sven’s tone. “It’s cold as a hagraven’s tit out here and I’m the only one not wearing pants.”

“We’re getting close,” Faendal answered, clearly savouring the lad’s misery. “I can see the old watchtower up ahead.”

“Aye,” agreed Mog with a nod of his head, though barely visible to the naked eye, he too was beginning to pick out the shape of the tower in the distance. 

“And it’s no one’s fault but your own at your choice in  _ dress, _ Sven.”

“It’s a  _ kilt _ ,” Sven pouted, instinctively brushing a hand to smooth out his skirt of pelts. “Besides, my mother says it makes me look fierce.”

Faendal and Mog shared a brief look, punctuated by a rather timely bleat from the goat.

A few moments of blissful silence passed before Sven finally thought of something clever to say.

“You know why we call it a kilt, elf?”

Faendal shrugged and adjusted his bow, trying to distance himself from the irritating bard.

“Because we Nords  _ kilt  _ everyone who called it a skirt.”

Mog rolled his eyes and pressed on ahead.

“Get it?” Sven called out after them, “it’s ‘cause kilt sounds like kil―”

An arrow sudden sprouted from the ground at Sven’s feet.

The trio regrouped quickly, ducking behind a nearby boulder, their eyes madly scanning the rise for their impending foe.

“NEVER SHOULD HAVE COME HERE!”

A pair of ragged-looking men appeared up the path, charging towards them with deadly intent. One had what seemed to be a ramshackle assembly of armor scraps lashed to his person, while the other, now close enough to make out that he was in fact a  _ she, _ was dressed in quite a similar manner to Sven, though her skirts were embellished with the addition on what appeared to be a human skull bouncing along against her thigh and a necklace of fingers was strung about her neck.

“YOU PICKED A BAD TIME TO GET LOST, FRIENDS!”

A volley of arrows (if a mere  _ two  _ archers could launch such a thing) bounced off the side of the boulder in a manner that was anything but friendly. 

“TIME TO END THIS LITTLE G―rrrrrrghk.”

The male bandit fell, one of Faendal’s red-fletched arrows stuck fast through his throat.

“You’re dead! DEAD!” The woman tossed her bow aside, drawing a pair of wicked piton hammers from her belt. Giving them a practiced twirl, she charged towards them, leaping over her fallen comrade as she went.

Mog jerked his head towards the incoming bandit, giving Faendal a questioning look. Meanwhile, Sven cowered between them, head betwixt his knees and hands drawn protectively over his head.

“You want this one?”

Mog gave a brief nod before vaulting over the rock, axe raised high. He intercepted the woman, and with the advantage given by his superior size and reach, removed her head from her shoulders in one fell sweep. It spun through the air, landing some feet away beneath a patch of winter heath, blood staining the dirt and snow.

“Not to bad,” Faendal came up beside the orc. “I think Gerdur will be none too pleased when she hears what you’ve done with her axe, but I won’t tell her if you won’t.” He gave Mog a conspiratorial wink before hauling Sven out from behind the boulder. “Come now, you milkdrinker, we’ve a ways to go yet.”

“Oh, go back to your miserable forests you insufferable elf!” Sven blanched a bit at the sight of the felled bandits, but attempted to put on a brave face. “I could have handled them easily enough, just didn’t want to tire myself out before the real trouble starts.”

Mog rolled his eyes and wiped off his bloodied axe on the woman’s fur kilt. From a rocky ledge above them, the cross-eyed goat gave a triumphant bleat, startling Sven and giving Faendal cause to let out a hearty laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I survived the wedding. Thank Batman most of my friends are single, I don’t think I have it in me to manage another any time soon.
> 
> I apologize again for any spelling errors, fake nails are NOT my friends and I am counting down the hours to get them taken off. I respect those of you who can live with them, but they are making my life way more difficult than necessary. At least they aren’t pink anymore, matte black makes things a bit more tolerable, though I still feel like I have someone else’s hands x__x
> 
> On Camilla: I don’t want to hear any slut-shaming or other such BS about her choices. She’s a grown woman who makes her own decisions and good god I am defending the actions of an interpretation of a fictional character. I guess this is my life now.
> 
> As to her and Donna’s night together, I suppose _technically_ it could be interpreted as mildly dub-con-esque behaviour, but that wasn’t my intention when writing it. Donna was aware of the repercussions when she followed Camilla home, she just isn’t feeling all that comfortable with the fact that she was a one-night-stand followed by another under the same roof. But I digress, it was not dub-con… Thanks for the concerned email though? 
> 
> Fun fact: The goat’s name is Percival G. Esquire the Third.
> 
> 2019-06-24  
> Cleaned up some spelling and grammatical errors, tweaked a few details that I messed up.


	19. In which another quest is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: ~~Still rocking the tiny surfboards, apologies for any excessive errors…~~  
>  Tiny surfboards removed via brute force, acetone and some very determined bladework.  
> Never again. *shudders*
> 
> In other news, HOLY SHIT LADS, WE BROKE 500 HITS! (-^ ω^-)
> 
> **TW:** The last section of this chapter involves some particularly nasty self-hating commentary, and the final paragraph contains some brief self-harm imagery.  
> Ye be warned.

“A dragon! I saw a dragon! Again!”

“What? What is it now, Hilde?”

“Sven will have to believe me now! It’ll kill us all, and then he’ll believe me!”

 "Dragons, really Hilde? You keep on like this and everyone in town will think you're… Merciful Mara!"

"You see! It _is_ a dragon! Hah!"

 

* * *

 

_Why did I agree to this? What the fuck was I thinking?_

Donna was dragging her heels as she marched miserably across the stone bridge leading out of Riverwood. She had a small pack slung over her shoulders, containing what Gerdur had assured her would be enough supplies to bring her comfortably to the next town. City. Whatever. All Donna knew was that something kept banging against her spine in a rather unpleasant manner and she was once again wearing those goddamned too-big leather boots she’d brought back from Helgen. Stuffing the toes with some rags hadn’t really helped the fit, but at least it kept her feet from sliding around too much, though she was certain that she’d be tripping over the toes before long. 

After weaseling her way out of climbing a mountain for Camilla, Donna had been quite pleased with herself, having delegated the claw-retrieving to the pair of manipulative gits; Sven and Faendal. If she had known mere hours later that she would be sent off on some sort of equally undesirable quest by Gerdur, she might have reconsidered her stance on the whole ‘dungeon-diving’ thing. With the two most able-bodied young men in the town off gallivanting in an old tomb, and that orc guy Mog nowhere to be found, she had ended up being volun-told to take a message to some important-sounding ‘Yarl’ fellow regarding the recent dragon-related activity in the area. 

_I’m going to die out here, and all I have to my name are these stupid boots and my fucking housecoat._

Okay, so she did have all of the things Gerdur and her husband had graciously loaned her for the journey, and Delphine had paid her a small handful of heavy gold coins _(septims?)_ for her performance the night before, but that was it…and she still had the knife _(dagger? What was the difference, anyway?)_ Ralof had given her. And a slingshot Frodnar’s little friend Dorothy _(or her name was)_ had pressed into her hand with a bag of stones as she passed by the blacksmith’s house. But that was _it,_ people. Seriously.

Okay, fine. 

She did also have the heavy chainmail shirt taken off poor Gunjar’s body back in the fort, and a small sack of clinking colourful vials that Ulfric had insisted she take, but that was _it._ Everything she had to her (rather unfortunate by all accounts) name. And all of it was stuffed into the bag on her back, weighing like a million kilos and causing her mild, yet impossible to ignore, discomfort.

_“The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose.” Gerdur had said. “Riverwood is defenseless!”_

_I’m fucking defenseless, yet somehow I get to go off on this magical world-saving quest!_ Donna had finally reached the other side of the bridge, no longer feeling any of the false bravado she had been faking for the people of Riverwood. Looking back across the river, she could see that the small crowd of people had all but dissipated, only Camilla and Hilde, Sven’s mother, (of all people!) had remained to watch her go. She blew Camilla a theatrical kiss and waved her goodbyes to the now thoroughly scandalized old woman before heading down the right fork in her path. By which, of course, it was both the right path and the _right_ path, the left being the way up the mountains that she had zero intention of ever even considering to climb.  

_“We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for us, Riverwood will be in your debt.”_

A few feet further down the cobble road brought Donna to a sight that filled her with immediate dread… More than she already felt, in any case. There was a wooden road sign sunk deep into the roadside with an unlit iron lantern hanging from it, both swaying gently in the breeze. It wasn’t that Donna was met with anything that could be described as a vision of unbridled terror, no, but she was most definitely not comfortable with the discovery that the letters etched and painted into the wooden sign were in what she could only describe as another fucking language entirely different from anything she knew. 

_Oh shit. This is not cool. Nope._

A couple hours down the winding road, and Donna was still fuming, cursing herself and everyone she had so far met in this stupid Skyrim place. Any further thoughts of just how unpleasant Donna found her bizarre, uncomfortably difficult situation in this alien world were cut short by a low growling sound emitting from several nearby bushes. Repressing a sudden urge to piss herself, Donna slowly pulled her knife from its sheath and prayed to whomever might be listening that she wasn’t about to become a meal for a bear of some other crazy monster from this scary backwards world.

There was no such luck to be had, of course, and from the bushes crept one of the biggest, mangiest wolves that Donna had ever seen in her entire life.

_NOPE._  

It stared down its muzzle at her with yellow eyes before throwing back its head and let out a bone-chilling howl. No sooner had it finished did another equally mean-looking wolf emerge from behind a thick tree trunk to her right, and yet another leapt down from a small ledge to her left.

_NOPE NOPE NOPE._

Donna felt a trickle of warmth run down the side of her leg and she knew that she was well and truly fucked.

 

* * *

 

“Good doggies…” Donna held out her dagger, keeping as much space between herself and the approaching wolves as she could, though the clever beasts had already begun to circle her. “You don’t want to eat me! I’m all fatty and lumpy and probably taste like piss― _¡JESUCRISTO!_ ”

One of the smaller wolves had lunged at her, jaws snapping a hairsbreadth from her fingertips, almost causing her to drop the small blade she held.

“Bad dog!” Donna delivered a poorly timed kick, missing the retreating wolf by a good half metre. Another wolf boldly latched on to her foot when she kicked, teeth sinking into the thick leather of her boot, but not quite piercing through. Screeching like a banshee, Donna flailed her leg about, trying to dislodge the unwanted ankle-biter. With slightly better coordination, she managed to whack the assailing beast into the side of a tree, causing it to let out a pained whine on impact.

With her back turned, it shouldn’t have come to be that much of a surprise when she felt the heavy bulk of a wolf as it landed on top of her. By pure chance, the creature seemed to have slightly miscalculated, its fetid maw catching on the kerchief wrapped around her head instead of a much more fatal purchase around her throat. With a snarl, it pulled back its head, trying to dislodge the fabric from between its sharp teeth. In a desperate attempt to remove the wolf from her back, Donna hurled herself backwards in a poorly executed semblance of a pro-wrestler move, hoping to land on the mangy bastard and tried not to think of the implication towards the status of her weight if it somehow succeeded.

A loud yelping confirmed the success of her Hail Mary attempt, as did the slight crunching sensation she felt by her shoulder. “Sorry puppy,” she mumbled, scrambling back up to her feet just in time for the third and largest of the wolves to launch itself at her face. “Holy oomphf!”

The rest of the world faded away into a blur, her sole focus now on her struggle for survival. Her arm was now caught firmly in the wolf’s jaws, preventing it from latching on to a more vital location but hurting like a fucking bitch in the process. With her free hand, Donna began stabbing wildly into the beast’s heaving furry sides with her knife, a final act of desperation. How long it took, she didn’t know, but finally the grip on her arm slackened and the weight of the full grown alpha wolf collapsed onto her chest. Thick, hot blood oozed from its wounds, soaking her arm and thoroughly ruining her borrowed dress.

Over the rising roar of her blood rushing in her ears, Donna almost didn’t make out the pathetic whimpering of the remaining wolves as they retreated.

_What._

_The._

_Fuck._

It took the majority of what little strength she had left to crawl out from under the dead wolf, and her arm stung with pain like she had never felt before. Growing up in a sheltered suburban home, the most grievous injury she had known up until this moment had been a mere papercut in comparison to the burning agony of her ruined arm. Surveying the area for further danger, Donna sighed with relief when she found none. Dragging herself to the riverside, she dunked her arm in the icy water, hoping to clean out as much of the wolf’s rancid bite as she could. From the looks of things, this world had woefully little in means of practical medicine, and penicillin was way out of the realm of possible availability should she develop an infection.

Wiping her blade clean on her already ruined dress, she used it to cut some of the cleaner sections of skirt into strips and wrapped her arm in the makeshift bandage. It still ached, but the frigid waters of the White River had soothed the acute pain, now settled down to a dull throb. Giving her face and hands a final rinse, Donna staggered to her feet and looked south down the road, back to the relative safety of the small town. _I can just go back, right? I’m barely outside of Riverwood... But what about the dragon?_ She thought about the impetuous Frodnar and the blacksmith’s little girl. Then her mind was overcome by images of dragonfire and the scent of burning flesh as the town of Helgen was rent to the ground. _No,_ she sighed and adjusted her pack, ignoring the sloshing sound of something leaking within. _I can’t let that happen here too._

“After dealing with those mangy fuckwads, this doesn’t look that hard,” she glared down the path before her, as if daring it to spit out more wolves. “Well, come on, feet,” Donna picked her way along the staggered cobblestones of the ancient highway, feeling no more capable than when she had left Riverwood, but infinitely more determined to reach her destination.

 

* * *

 

Wolves and subsequently accrued injuries aside, Donna found herself beginning to enjoy her rambling walk along the riverside path. She was pleasantly surprised to see several fat silvery salmon leaping through the heavier rapids of the whitewater river, their upstream journey a comfortingly familiar sight. _Some things don’t change, I guess,_ she thought to herself. _But others, well…_ Visions of the impossibly large, impossibly black dragon once again flashed through her mind. Shuddering, she decided that now was as good a time as any to take a break for lunch. Dinner. Supper? Food.

Yes, it was high time for a food time.

_Excellent choice, Donna._

Her earlier ignorance of something breaking in her pack had yielded some less than pleasant results, namely the ruin of her impending mealtime. A couple of the small vials had broken in their sack, which had prevented the glass shards from littering throughout the rest of her belongings, but had not been enough to keep the viscous red liquid from seeping into the small loaf Gerdur had packed in a bit of cloth. Scowling at the mess, Donna picked up the soggy bread and gave it a hard look. 

An inquisitive sniff offered no offending scent, just a whiff of something vaguely floral and the underlying yeastiness of the bread. Hmm… Not knowing how much further she had yet to go, Donna decided to attempt to salvage the ruined food as any college student would in a similar situation, and gave the loaf a tentative bite. While not entirely unpalatable, the texture left a lot to be desired. Still, it was food, and she was hungry. There were a couple apples and some sort of dried meat still left in her pack, but she decided to save them for later. The soggy bread would only deteriorate, while the heartier bits of foodstuffs would keep much better, and were far less soaked in the red liquid.

One slightly icky loaf later, and Donna was feeling rejuvenated, ready to hit the trail once more. Even my arm doesn’t hurt so much anymore. Huh. Readjusting the straps on her shoulders, she dusted off her bloodied skirts and set off once more. In the sky above, she noted with some concern that the sun was getting ever-closer to the horizon. _I would kill for a watch right about now,_ she furrowed her brows. _Or a cell phone. Hell, even a sundial…_ She was overtaken with a sudden memory, one that never ceased to put a smile on her face.

_“Hey mac,” says the shady-looking man, pulling back a cloak to reveal knobby knees and an ill-fitting toga. “Wanna buy a sundial?”_

Snorting despite herself, Donna shook her head, idly remembering that her kerchief had been snatched away by that stupid wolf earlier, and headed on down the road.

 

* * *

 

The sun was settling in beyond the southern mountains when Donna finally had to admit to herself that she was most likely lost. A brief reappearance of the surviving wolves had sent her running, then tumbling, down a steep hill and after another embarrassingly inept battle with the mangy beasties, Donna had been unable to find the road, nor the river. _How the fuck can I be so useless? It’s a fucking river! It’s big, loud and everything!? Tabernac!_ Unsure of what else to do, and still fearful of the pursuing wolves, Donna clambered up the easiest-to-climb tree she could find, intent to remain huddled against the sturdy trunk through the night. _Wolves can’t climb trees, right?_  

At least Gerdur had had the sense of mind to pack a coil of rope for Donna, fashioned to the side of what she was growing to refer to as her ‘explorer’s pack’ by means of a sturdy leather strap. What Donna lacked in knot-tying ability, she made up for in enthusiasm; creating a twisted tangle of knotted rope that she immediately regretted, only remembering her pressing need to pee after she had tied the bloody thing. One ungodly amount of time spent prying herself free from the tight bonds and a short piss later, she scrambled back up the tree and carefully re-secured herself to the trunk, making sure this time not too go so overboard with looping and pulling at the hempen rope.

It was a long, cold night and she was too fearful to get anything remotely close to a proper night’s rest. She didn’t think wolves could climb trees, but bears? She knew from experience that bears definitely existed in this world, and from the depths of her mind had emerged a memory of a grade six class lecture on the awful creatures that confirmed her worst fears: bears could indeed climb trees. Shivering from the cold, as well as a healthy dose of cowardice, Donna took out her housecoat and pulled the fluffy robe on over her soiled dress. It wasn’t the warmest, but she didn’t have many options, her pack lacking the definitive bundle that would have denoted a bedroll. _Some explorer’s pack… Hah._ She was fairly certain there wasn’t a tinderbox, either. And definitely not a bundle of torches, nor anything remotely resembling a mess kit. A piss poor analogy indeed. _Way to go, me. Maybe you do deserve all this stupid inter-dimensional travel shit, after all._

It was a long night for Donna, made all the longer still by the unimpeded rampage of all the self-deprecating thoughts and horrific realizations that bounded and stomped unrelentingly inside her mind.

_“You are a horrible person,” whispered a voice. “You deserve this, to be lost and alone.”_

_“You are going to die here,” cackled another. “All by yourself, no one will ever know what happened to you, you stupid girl, and now one will even care, either.”_

Donna dug her fingernails into her forearm, the pinching sensation doing nothing to halt the hateful whispers in her mind.

_“Stupid slut! Camilla had the right idea, going off to fuck that guy after you. She was just trying to get you to go off to those mountains and die.”_

_“Gabe never loved you. He was happy when you finally let him go.”_

_“He hated you.”_

_“They all hate you.”_

_No, please stop._

_“You awful, wicked, hateful bitch!”_

Donna whimpered, clutching her hands tightly in her hair.

_"Stupid, fat useless! No one will ever love you!”_

_“Your parents never wanted you, anyways,” sneered another voice. “You’re ugly, fat, a disappointment. No wonder they couldn’t wait to be rid of you!”_

_Stop._

_“Useless, worthless bitch. Even that town, they all wanted rid of you.”_

_“Sent you out here to die, they knew about the wolves! They knew you would fall to the beasts!”_

_“All of them.”_

_“Hate you.”_

_**STOP.** _

_“Never,” they whispered, a cacophony of damned and twisted inner thoughts. “We’ll never let you go.”_

When the sun finally poked a slim, pink finger out from beyond the horizon, Donna was pale and shaking, clinging desperately to the rough bark of the tree’s thick trunk. Tears were carving white furrows down her filthy cheeks and blood was caked beneath her fingernails, her arms aching from an onslaught of self-inflicted scratches and friction burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Oh baby girl, things will get better, I promise!
> 
> If you like more road signs and other roadside-type additions to your game, the following three mods should ‘point’ you in the right ‘direction’ d(･ω･ )  
>  _Point the Way_ by Arthmoor  
>  _Weathered Road Signs_ by Nimbli Bimbli  
>  _Lanterns of Skyrim_ by mannygt
> 
> And should you care to have a more ‘Donna-style’ reading experience:  
>  _Realistic Roadsigns RUNES VERSION_ by mathy79
> 
> The “wanna buy a sundial” scene is possibly my most favourite Disney bit of all time. 10 points if you know where it’s from ;)
> 
> Also, because I am a knucklehead who loses track of time, Happy Pride Month, folks!


	20. In which there is a spot of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am so sorry for the delay, life has been kicking my ass and Donna was being non-compliant in her participation this time around. 
> 
> Anyshways… here’s an update! Not as long as I’d like it to be, but hey, it’s something, right?

Donna had no idea how long it was supposed to take her to get to Whitewalk or Lightrun or wherever the hell Gerdur had said she was going, but Donna had an inkling it was supposed to be a significantly shorter trip than what she was currently managing. How the hell was she even supposed to know where she was going? It’s not like she had a map or anything! Silently brooding, Donna thought on the advice she’d been given before leaving Riverwood.

_ “Follow the road signs, Donna,” Gerdur had said. _

“I can’t even fucking read them!”

_ “Just stick to the river, you won’t miss it!” Camilla had assured. _

“And I lost the river. Hurray and huzzah! Bear Grylls ain’t got nothing on me.”

_ “Watch out for wolves, Donna—” _

“Oh wait, none of you fuckers even mentioned those, did you? Assholes!”

Without a doubt, Donna was almost completely certain that she was absolutely, definitely, lost. And it had started to rain. Hard.  _ This is just awesome. Great. Fantastic! I’m going to die out here and no one will ever find my body because it will be eaten by wolves. Delightful.  _ With a long-suffering sigh, Donna pulled her hood up over her head and tightened her housecoat’s belt around her waist. The purple fleecey fabric was some sort of polyester concoction, and offered little protection from the wind, but she knew from experience (cutting corners while doing laundry) that it was quick to dry.

After her angsty night in the tree, Donna was more determined than ever to get herself to civilization— at least, somewhere remotely resembling that—as soon as humanly possible. She was more than aware of how utterly helpless she was, traveling alone in this stupid scary world, and the sooner she rectified that particular situation, the better.

_ Step one: find people. Step two: get pants because all this dress business is doing nothing for my chafing thighs. Step three: find someone who can get me back home… _

“Ah, the rain.”

The sudden introduction of a rather raspy voice in the vicinity of her left ear nearly gave Donna a heart attack.

_ Sweet fuck, what now? _

“There is much snow in Skyrim. Enough snow. M’aiq gladly takes the rain, instead.”

“Oh, er… hello there?” 

The voice, it turned out, belonged to a man  _ (elf?) _ in a faded orange robe, an equally worn yellow hood pulled low on his brow to keep out the deluge. It also kept his face in shadow, though Donna thought she could make out a white beard protruding from his chin.

“Greetings. M’aiq wishes you well traveler,” he purred  _ (purred!?) _ with a bow.

“You as well…”  _ Mierda, who the hell is this guy?  _ “My name is—”

“Suth’ajwin.”

“Uh, bless you?”

“M’aiq is blessed, indeed.” Donna could literally  _ hear  _ him smile. “He has feet for walking. Hands for hitting. Or shaking. Or waving. Sometimes for clapping."

_ First Lokir, now this nutjob? Do I have a fucking neon sign over my head that says ‘Welcome Weirdos!’? Gah! _ “That’s…nice?”  _ Maybe he can help you figure out where you are? _ “Say—M’aiq was it?—you wouldn’t happen to know where the city is, would you?”

“M’aiq knows many things.”

Donna nodded encouragingly at the strange man, hands gesturing for him to elaborate.

“You seek knowledge. M'aiq has much. Some of it verified by actual facts!"

_ Groan. Seems I’ve found my obligatory ‘speaks only in riddles’ elderly person adventuring guide. _ “I’ve uh, lost the road. And the river, too. Could you…”  _ No, stupid! Speak affirmatives, less likely to out-maneuvered by technicalities.  _  “Can you help me?”

“Not all who wander are lost,” M’aiq simply stated.

_ Shit. That didn’t work… Wait, what? _ Donna felt her vision tunnel as her brain finished processing what the man had actually said.  _ Did he just quote—? No way.  _

It might have been some years ago, but Donna still knew by rote the famous Tolkien poem she’d memorized for her ninth grade Intro to Theater class.  _ There is no fucking way. This isn’t Middle Earth, I’m like ninety percent sure anyways. They only had like one dragon, and he was red or pink or something, not black. And the orcs were way more scary. And the elves were all poncy and blond! Nope definitely not in Middle Earth. Fuck you, Tolkien. _

Still, when mystical, probably bearded, most likely old men you met in the middle of magical lands quote popular Earth literature at you, Donna presumed it would be foolish not to at least confirm it wasn’t some sort of inter-dimensional fluke. And so, instead of continuing in a downwards panic-spiral, she instead recited:

> _All that is gold does not glitter,_ _  
> __Not all those who wander are lost;_ _  
> __The old that is strong does not wither,_ _  
> ___Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
> 
> _From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_ _  
> __A light from the shadows shall spring;_ _  
> __Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_ _  
> ___The crownless again shall be king.

M’aiq gave her a small applause, which was oddly flattering coming from a crazy man who seemed to communicate solely through riddles, but her inner diva was thrilled nonetheless.  _ This is even more super weird now… _

They regarded each other for a moment, a pair of perfect strangers in drenched hoods with obscured faces. Donna could feel the rain pick up, somehow falling even more heavily than before. Shivering, she shoved her hands deeper into her wet pockets, shoulders up around her ears in a useless attempt to stave off the chill.

“Are you going to help me, then?”

From the depths of his robes, M’aiq retrieved a small circular object on a thick silver chain. "M'aiq is glad he has a compass. Makes it easy to find things.” He let the compass dangle on it’s chain for a moment before opening it with surprising dexterity despite his thick, furry mittens. “Much better than wandering around like a fool." Again, Donna knew he was giving her a sardonic grin, despite his covered features.

“Okay...” Donna felt a flare of irritation at being called a fool, but she knew better than to piss off a potentially dangerous stranger, or possibly helpful ally. “Is that a no, then?”

“M’aiq prefers to adventure alone. Others just get in the way.”

“Oh.”  _ Godammit. _

“But for Suth’ajwin, M’aiq makes exception.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

Together, they made their way through the wet scrub and brush. Donna hung back a few steps, trying to match the careful steps of the loquacious M’aiq in an attempt to keep her footing in the rough, mucky terrain. It took less than an hour for M’aiq to lead Donna back to the packed dirt road that ran along the White River, and she was extremely grateful to the benevolent weirdo, despite his incessant nattering about random nonsense. He refused her offering to share a meager roadside meal, insisting he had elsewhere to be. Before leaving her company, he pressed his compass into her cold, wet hands.

“I have seen dragons. Perhaps you will see a dragon. I won't say where I saw one. Perhaps I did not.”

“What?” Her already cold blood got that much chillier.

“Have you  _ seen  _ dragons?” M’aiq cocked his head quizzically, re-examining her. 

Donna could almost make out a pair of glittering eyes from beneath his hood. They were…too far apart?  _ What the hell is this guy? _

“Yes? No? M'aiq thinks they must be hiding...for now.” 

With an abrupt turn, M’aiq left a rather dumbfounded Donna standing at the side of the road, clutching his gifted compass in her suddenly very limp hands.

_ Dragons. He’s seen dragons, plural, and HOLY SHIT IS THAT A TAIL!? _

 

* * *

 

The rain eventually let up enough that Donna’s sopping hood is once again enough protection for her eyeglasses from the rain. She had been a bit on edge after that M’aiq fellow had toddled off into the, well,  _ wherever  _ he had gone. It was hard to see more than a couple metres ahead through the accumulated droplets on her lenses, so she wasn’t too sure which way the weird man had gone. His compass hadn’t really proven all that much more helpful either, mostly due to her not being entirely sure which direction she should be travelling in, other than said direction being towards the flow of the river. The little silver arrow seemed to be keeping mostly north, though for all Donna knew, compasses worked completely backwards in this place. Did compasses point south here? Hell, maybe it was a magic compass that would point directly to her desired destination, or towards her heart’s true desire or—

_ It smells really yeasty up in here. _

A deep sniff not only confirmed that, yes, she was indeed smelling  _ yeast, _ of all things, and also had the undesired side effect of her practically inhaling a rather large raindrop that had been lurking on the tip of her left nostril. Wrinkling her nose, Donna tried to pinpoint which direction the unusual scent was coming from. A quick consultation with the compass confirmed that is was indeed wafting towards her from a westwards direction, down a bit of a rise and past some trees. 

_ Yeasty and honey-ey? _

With the driest bit of her dress she could find, Donna wiped off the most obscuring drops off her glasses, before resting them back on her nose. Now seeing things with significantly more clarity, Donna could just make out the sloping roofline of a pair of buildings; one of which had a small plume of smoke drifting defiantly through the overcast skies. Throwing what little caution she still possessed to the wind, Donna excitedly made her way down the small hillside, sliding the last few steps in an unexpected stretch of mud, but otherwise managing to keep her feet. The smell was even stronger now, and she could see several wooden casks lined up at the side of the smaller of the two buildings. 

Sure, she’d been in this messed up alien world for like a week or so now, but she still couldn’t get over the architecture. The little details. It was like being in a movie. Everything was beyond perfect, right down to the last moss-covered rock. Piles of damp straw were scattered about a small yard, where a fat brown hen had chosen to brave the weather; pecking diligently at the remaining last bits of what Donna could only assume was some sort of earthworm mere moments ago. A flash of movement from the rooftop caught her eye, an aged wrought iron weather-vane spinning in the light wind. These roofs were not thatched like those in Riverwood, but shingled with hundreds of small scale-shaped wooden pieces, cleverly notched and slatted to keep out the elements. It was a bit more reminiscent of houses in her own world, and that thought sent a pang of longing deep through her soul.

_ I’m getting weepy-eyed about fucking shingles. The hell is wrong with me? _

Giving herself a full-body shake, Donna adjusted the soggy straps of her backpack and trudged onward, giving the enclosed property a respectful berth as she came around to rejoin the road once more. It was less dirt and more stone now, with large, deeply set cobbles that collected small pools of water on their smoothed surface. At least it wasn’t the pure mud that she’d been slogging through earlier. Her aching feet were grateful to be on (relatively) solid ground once more.

She had just picked out the distant shape of another building when she heard a wailing shriek further down the road.  _ Holy fuck is someone dying!? That sounds like a… a baby. Oh no, no no! _ With a burst of sudden maternal-instinct-derived energy, Donna booked it towards the infantile cries. She had just enough time to redirect herself to skidding slide around a sudden bush and not through it, when her eyes were met with the sight of something even stranger than she could have possibly imagined.

It was, for lack of any other description, a giant. 

A giant who was looking rather like the child caught with his hand in a cookie jar, as much as a fucking  _ giant  _ possibly could anyways, with a large, meaty grey-skinned hand firmly grasped about the middle of a squealing sow that it  _ (he?) _ was in the process of lifting out of what appeared to be a wooden sty tacked on to the side of a small hovel-type structure. A couple other pigs  _ (I always forget how big pigs actually are, yikes these guys are huge!) _ were cowering in the corner, trying pathetically to flee the enclosure via a small gap in the fencing.

“Hey!” Donna couldn’t believe she actually just cried ‘hey!’ at a fucking pig-stealing man-giant. Apparently, he couldn’t either, because he looked equally as taken aback by her sudden outburst as Donna was herself. Then, the massive monster-man raised his other enormous hand and made the (apparently) universal gesture for ‘who, me?’.

The writhing pig let out another ear-piercing squeal, and Donna could only watch with impossibly wide eyes as the giant grasped its head and gave it a deft twist, silencing the unfortunate creature forever. The giant then hefted the pig’s body over one shoulder with remarkable ease, gave Donna a slight ‘well what did you think I was going to do?’ shrug, and began to walk towards her.

That thunder she’d been hearing earlier suddenly re-registered in her brain, no longer attributed to a naturally-occurring weather phenomenon, but to the reverberating rumble of the giant’s steps as it hauled its immense bulk in a lumbering jaunt.

For the second time in as many days, Donna felt warmth trickle down the side of her leg.

 

* * *

 

“Severio, please, keep your workers inside. Aye, there’s a good man. We’ll come get ya when things are clear.”

Ria could barely stop herself from snorting at the perturbed expression on Farkas’ face. He had finally managed to talk the ex-Legionnaire-turned-farmer back inside the farmhouse after having spent the last quarter hour trying to talk old Severio Pelegia into putting away his pitchfork and convincing him that, “Yes, the Companions would be able to manage his giant problem,” and, “No, no need to get involved sir, we’ll stay clear of your cabbage field.”  _ Cabbages. Hah. _

The tall, dark-haired man merely gave her a small growl in response to her amusement, before drawing his greatsword and giving the slighter woman a shove as he walked past her. Playfully, of course, though a playful shove from a man of Farkas’ size could have dealt some serious damage to a lesser person, a lesser warrior.  _ And I am neither of those, _ grinned Ria.  _ Not anymore!  _ Her fingers fell to the hilt of her own sword, tracing the familiar leather strapping on the grip. 

“C’mon, whelp, you gonna take point this time?” 

Despite the poor visibility in the drizzling rain, Ria could clearly make out the even white line of his smile and the softness in his pale eyes. Knowing that she could otherwise get lost for days just looking at his handsome face, Ria gave her head a little shake, then nodded back at him with a smile of her own, “Aye, shield-brother. I think I will.” 

“Can we finally go now?” scowled Aela from the farmhouse steps, her thick auburn hair plastered to her head in an unfortunate manner. Were she anyone else, Ria might have made a comment that Aela looked a bit like a drowned skeever, but Ria wasn’t fool enough to do that. Twice.

Striking a bold pose, Ria drew her steel longsword from its sheath and hold it aloft. “Onwards, Companions!” Launching herself off the end of the small porch, Ria dashed headlong into the field towards the distant figure of their quarry.

“You heard her, Aela,” Farkas says with a wolfish grin, pushing a wet lock of black hair back from his face with a rough, callused hand.

Rolling her own pale grey eyes, Aela grabbed her bow and adjusted her thigh quiver. “Good hunting, brother.”

With a shared animalistic roar, they set off across the field with inhuman speed, quickly gaining on their shield-sister despite her more than ample head start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter fought me tooth and nail, but I eventually managed to emerge semi-victorious. Apparently Donna didn’t want to travel alone, because the moment I relented and gave her a traveling partner, she was much more compliant. I think she is developing self-awareness...
> 
> I spent far more time researching the properties of polar fleece than I ever thought possible while writing this chapter. Fun fact: Polar fleece is hydrophobic, holding less than 1% of its weight in water. Neato. Seems like Donna actually made a smart choice when she brought it with her. Huh, way to go Donna.
> 
> ‘All that is gold does not glitter’ by J.R.R. Tolkien, from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’
> 
> Tune in next time for ‘Three Idiots Explore a Haunted Tomb’ aka ‘Bromancing to Atone’


End file.
